Date: Sat, 5 Jul 2003 10:14:39 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Boys Of Aurora - Chapter 11

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
alive or dead is coincidental. The venue is fictional and any resemblance
to actual bases, locations, is coincidental.

This story takes place in 1976 Canada and reflects the mores, traditions,
customs, etc., of the times. I urge all of those who read this story to
remember that what is "politically correct" today, was not thought of back
then. If you are Lib-Left, politically correct and have jumped on the
bandwagons of whatever causes are the fads of the month, please do not
continue past this point. This also applies the so-called "Religious" Right
and "Moral" Majority. I respectfully remind you that the "Good Book" also
contains proscriptions, restrictions, do's and don'ts that I don't see or
hear any of you thumping bibles about. Write me, I'll be glad to give you
some excellent web sites. To all the anti-this and anti-that, Bible
Thumpers, Libertarians and the ACLU, the bankrupt and increasingly
irrelevant United Nations, please do not send me e-mails espousing whatever
cause you're touting. I have no time for claptrap.

As this work contains scenes of explicit sexual acts of a homosexual
nature, if such erotica offends you, please move on to a tamer site. If
your mainstay in life is Bible-thumping cant, please move on. If you are
not of legal age to read, possess or download writings of an erotic nature,
or if possession, reading, etc., is illegal where you live, please move on.

This story is written in an age without worry, and as such unprotected sex
is practiced exclusively. I urge all of you to NEVER engage in sexual acts
without proper protection. The life you save will be your own.

I will respond to all e-mails (except flames). Please e-mail me at
paradegi@rogers.com


The Boys Of Aurora: Chapter 11


As night descended on Heron Spit, the cadets and officers who lived aboard
settled into their Silent Hours routines. Harry, after showering, donned a
pair of shorts and a T-shirt and then went off to visit his Sea Puppies,
who were listlessly complaining and grumbling about the heat. Even with all
the windows open their barracks was an oven.

Harry told his young charges to take their mattresses, pillows and
counterpanes out to the harbour side of their barracks. Tonight they all
would sleep outdoors. In the interest of modesty he also told the boys to
put on their shorts. They all trooped outside and set up camp, the Sea
Puppies chattering and giggling as they settled down for the night. Harry
sat to one side, joking and laughing with the younger boys, watching and
listening as in ones and twos the Puppies drifted off to sleep.

As the last of the cadets drifted off Harry sat for a while, watching the
harbour lights and listening to the faint sounds of laughter and music that
drifted across the harbour from the town opposite, enjoying the soft
night. When the Duty Watch wandered by he walked with No "H" and Two
Strokes down the row of sleeping boys, listening to their soft breathing,
adjusting a counterpane here and there.

When No "H" and Two Strokes disappeared around the corner of the barracks
Harry thought about holding a live fire exercise with the Pride. The memory
of the dream he'd been having when Cory woke him up still lingered. He
slipped his hand down the front of his shorts (he wasn't wearing any
underwear) and let his fingers toy with the warm, sculpted head of the
Pride. Harry was quite enjoying himself when one of the Puppies grunted and
squirmed in his sleep. Harry quickly withdrew his hand deciding,
reluctantly, and in the interest of decency, not to bother jerking
off. There were 38 inquisitive cadets sleeping around him and it would be
better not to chance it than to have one of them wake up while he was in
mid-stroke. He sighed heavily, crossed his arms and laid his head back
against the barracks wall. Harry loved his Puppies, but being a Sea Daddy
was a pain in the ass at times.

In the Cooks' barracks Randy and Joey unpacked their clean laundry and
carefully rolled and folded the gunshirts, underwear, T-shirts and socks to
the regulation pattern before stowing everything away in their
lockers. Since they were as ready as they ever would be for tomorrow's
inspection - their bells and gunshirts ironed and hanging in readiness,
their boots spit shined to a high gloss - they took out clean towels and
briefs and sat impatiently on the steps of the barracks, waiting for Chef
to leave.

The boys watched and giggled at Kevin, who paced up and down in front of
the Mess Hall, went into the Mess Hall, left the Mess Hall, paced nervously
back and forth, then ran into the building through the main doors when Chef
emerged from the side door. They grinned evilly at each other as they
waited for what they thought was a decent interval, giving Kevin and Ray
(who they knew had been with Chef), time to settle into whatever routine
they were going to settle into.

While they were waiting impatiently No "H" and Two Strokes, doing Rounds,
came down the path. The boys quickly hid their towels and greeted the
Officer of the Day and the Duty Chief. Two Strokes chided them for being
out on such a hot night. Joey protested that the barracks were too hot to
sleep in and please, Chiefie, they just wanted to catch a breath of air. No
"H" told them not to stay up past Last Post and then he and Two Strokes
walked off in the direction of the canteen. Randy and Joey waited a little
while longer and then scurried over to the galley showers.

After a cooling, tepid shower they walked hand-in-hand, naked, into the
lounge, and settled on one of the sofas. They necked and fondled each other
for a bit, and at first they were quite content. In a very little while,
however, they both began sweating profusely. The small lounge had become a
hotbox and they had not dared to open the windows in the room for fear of
attracting the attention of the patrolling Duty Watch and as the
temperature in the room rose higher they both decided to hell with it. It
was too hot to fuck or fight, so they took another shower, returned to
their barracks, and went to bed. Before he drifted off to sleep Randy
whispered, wondering facetiously where Ray was.  Joey giggled but said
nothing. He had a very good idea exactly where Ray was, and who he was
with.

******

" . . . So, what else did he say?" asked Kevin as he ran his fingers down
Ray's treasure trail. They were lying on the opened sofa bed in Chef's
office. Ray was lying spread-eagled with Kevin between his legs. Because
the shades were drawn they had left the small desk lamp on, the dim light
casting dark shadows toward the ceiling.

Ray groaned slightly as Kevin's hand found his balls and began kneading and
rolling the firm ovals of delight. He glanced down and saw Kevin's
erection, hard, very pink, and pointing straight at him. Ray reached down
and rubbed the head of his lover's dick with his thumb, wiping away a
minute drop of precum. Kevin retaliated by running his tongue along the
underside of Ray's hardon. Ray squirmed and moaned softly, "God, that feels
so good!"

Kevin giggled and licked the firm, pink, mushroom-shaped head of Ray's
dick. "So?"

Ray looked at Kevin through hooded eyes. "Are we fucking or talking?"

Kevin laughed and straddled Ray's chest. "Both," he replied. He bent down
and kissed Ray's nose. "You have a nice nose, Ray. And a nice dick." He
lowered his body slightly, stopping when he felt the heat of Ray's dick
touch his balls. He began dragging his balls up and down the length of
Ray's increasingly hard cock.

Ray, who was enjoying what Kevin was doing to him, decided to get it over
with. The sooner he shut Kevin up the sooner they could get down to some
serious loving. "Well, if you must know," he began, "after he told me how
much he cared for me, and admitted that he loved me like a son, and told me
that no matter what, he would always feel that way, he beat about the bush
some."

While Ray was talking Kevin continued to rub his balls up and down the
length of Ray's incredibly smooth, iron-hard cock. Ray began panting
heavily so Kevin backed off and returned to his original position between
the boy's legs. "Go, on," coached Kevin.  "What else?"

Ray caught his breath and sailored on. "Like I said, he beat about the
bush, then he finally said that it didn't matter to him that I was gay."

"Good of him to say so," interrupted Kevin. He bent forward and seemed to
be examining Ray's hardon.

"Do you want me to continue?" asked Ray impatiently.

"Sure."

"Well shut up and listen." He squirmed in delight as Kevin once again
licked his dick. "Kevin, I can't concentrate if you keep doing that."

Kevin giggled and rolled to one side. He snuggled close to Ray and threw
his arm across his chest. "Brief rest. I was getting too horny, anyway."

Ray growled in frustration. "I really don't see what Chef said to me has to
do with you."

"Come on, Ray, he's not stupid. He had to know that we were in here last
night."

"He does," confirmed Ray. "He told me that he understood that I would want
to have sex with someone, and he was okay with that, so long as the guy
treated me okay and that it was what I wanted to do."

"A guy does have urges, Ray, especially at our age." Kevin leaned over and
kissed Ray's nipples. "Did I ever tell you that you have the nicest tasting
skin?"

"Keviiiin," moaned Ray.

Kevin took the hint. "To be honest I'm surprised that he didn't turn down
the sheets and put a rose on the pillow."

Ray sniffed. "Don't tell me. 'Rogering on the Range' again?"

"No, Chatelaine," replied Kevin with a wide grin. "You should read some of
the stuff they put in that magazine. It's better than Penthouse."

"And how would you know?" demanded Ray.

"My mother subscribes to Chatelaine and my brothers buy Penthouse," said
Kevin. He snuggled closer to Ray and gently rubbed his nipples. "Then what
did Chef say?"

Ray squirmed at Kevin's warm touch. "Not much.  He just said to make sure
that the door was locked and the shades pulled down.  Then he said he
really didn't care what I did so long as I didn't do it in the middle of
the parade square and frighten the Duty Watch and Kevin, just what the fuck
are you doing to my dick?"  While Ray had been chattering away Kevin had
moved his hand down Ray's body until it rested on his warm genitals. Then,
using his thumb and forefinger, he had been busily feeling Ray's
dick. "Measuring your dick," Kevin replied truthfully.

"Measuring . . . Kevin, have you lost what little brains you had?" Ray
struggled and rolled away from Kevin.  "Why don't you just take a picture?"

"Hey, I never thought of that!" Kevin raised himself on one elbow. "Isn't
there a Polaroid camera in the Ship's Office? I could get it and take a
picture . . ."

"Oh, no you will not!" Ray jumped off the sofa bed and cupped his rapidly
deflating erection. "Under no circumstances am I going to let you take a
picture of my dick."

Kevin lay back and started laughing. Then he sat up and reached out his
arms. "Come on back to bed, Ray. I promise, no pictures." He laughed
softly. "But, fuck, it would sure give me something to look at when the
wind is blowing across the lake, and it's ball-shrivelling cold and the
windows are rattling and I'm in bed and alone and . . ."

"Chatelaine again?"

"Nope," replied Kevin shaking his head. "Women's Magazine."

"Jesus!" exploded Ray as he returned to the bed. He lay beside Kevin, but
shook him off when he reached over to touch him. "You have gone nuts!"

"No," sighed Kevin.  "I'm just making sure that I never forget you."

"And just what does measuring my dick, or taking a picture of it, have to
do with 'remembering' me?"

Kevin began rubbing Ray's belly, tracing slow, delicate circles around and
around the soft skin. "I've thought a lot about what you said this
morning. I accept that we'll only be together for a week, so I want
definitely to make the most of what time we have. I also want you to
understand that I am not a fuck buddy. I love you, and I always will."

Ray was not prepared to continue the argument from this morning. "Kevin, I
told you the way I feel and . . ."

"And I'm telling you how I feel," returned Kevin with some heat. "Look,
Ray, I've known since I was ten that I liked guys. Until I met you I never
did anything serious with another guy. Oh, I've fooled around some, with
Adam, but all it ever was, was fooling around. He was just a guy to jerk
off and to jerk me off."

"Ten? And you and Adam, you never . . ."

"Nope, just played around and jerked each other off." Kevin scooted closer
and spooned himself against Ray. "Ray, I know that what we have is going to
end. Until then, with or without your permission, Raymond James Cornwallis,
I intend to enjoy every inch of you. I will lick you, suck you, smell
you. I will make love to you and, I hope, you will make love to me. I will
feel you in me and me in you. Later, when I've saved enough money, I am
going to take a trip up to Ottawa and you better not give me any bullshit
excuses. I'll get a room at the YMCA and we will spend every minute of my
visit in there. I will go to every cadet regatta, every sail past, every
event that comes up, just to be with you."

"Kevin, I . . ."

"No, Ray! That's the way it's going to be!" Kevin's firm jaw was
tight. "Either that, or I get out of this bed, put on my pants and go back
to the barracks!"

The look on Kevin's face told Ray that he was deadly serious. Kevin was
determined to be a lover, and not a fuck buddy, which in a way flattered
Ray no end. Kevin was offering his total devotion, no questions
asked. "Kevin, I, um," stammered Ray. "Kevin, you're only 15, for cripes
sake! You know that I don't love you. How can you possibly think that a
year from now that you'll feel the way you feel now about me?"

Kevin pounded the pillow under his head in exasperation. He moved away from
Ray and got off the bed. "Look, Ray, I may be only 15, but I know what I
want," he said as he fumbled under the bed for his underwear. "When I was
ten my Uncle Larry decided to get married." He grinned ruefully, and
continued on. "Actually, he knocked some girl up and had to get married. My
father decided to throw him a stag at the house. They had some dirty
movies. My Dad and my brothers thought that I was asleep. I wasn't. I snuck
down the stairs and sat there, peeking through the banisters, watching the
movie. While they were all hooting and hollering in the living room looking
at twats and tits I was sitting on stairs with the front of my Fruits
pooched out with the biggest hardon a guy that age could muster! I was
looking at the cocks and balls and I looked and looked and knew that's what
I liked. I jerked myself off in my underwear, Kevin, twice, and when one of
the actors in the movie sucked the other actor's cock, I came again. Okay,
they were dry cums, but, Ray, I CAME!"

Kevin pulled on his T-shirt shirt and reached for his gym shorts. He glared
at Ray. "I know what I want, Ray." He jerked his shorts over his underwear
and stood up.  "I'm fuckin' out of here." He walked around the end of the
bed and had just reached out to unlock the door when Ray rolled quickly out
of the bed, stood up and whirled him around.

Kevin's words had struck a chord deep within Ray for he suddenly realized
that Kevin really did love him and that he was not playing a game. Last
night he had not told Kevin the truth, for while he had wanted sex, all
that Kevin could give him, last night he had wanted sex from The Phantom
more, so in a way there really had been three people in the room. But not
now, for Ray's world had turned upside down. Kevin loved him. Kevin wanted
him and would pursue him, no matter the cost. Kevin was offering him
something The Phantom never could, or would, offer: deep, abiding,
unconditional love. While he realized that he loved The Phantom, Ray now
knew he needed Kevin more. He didn't understand why he felt this way, but
he did understand that he could not refuse such a love. Kevin wanted them
to walk together down the road that led to a bright, golden sun, and Ray
knew that he wanted to be with Kevin when he reached the end of the road.

"You better mean what you said!" Ray roughly pushed down Kevin's shorts and
underpants. He began stroking and fondling Kevin's balls and dick with one
hand while he pulled him closer.

Kevin tried to push Ray away. "I meant every fucking word, Ray.  I know I'm
not Phantom, and I know you'll never love me the way you love him. But
whatever it takes to make you happy, I'll do."

Ray grinned. "I know." He pushed Kevin's T-shirt up and over his head. "Now
come back to bed, please."

"I'm not your fuck buddy," warned Kevin.

"And I'm not yours," returned Ray as he pulled Kevin toward the bed. "We're
lovers, and now I'd like to make love to you."

Kevin's reply was muffled as Ray's lips pressed against his. He couldn't
resist this slim, handsome boy. His arms encircled Ray's naked body and
they pressed close together.

******

Kevin lay on his back with his legs in the air while Ray's tongue lavishly
washed his brown, crinkled hole, shivering in delight with each stroke of
Ray's tongue, and wiggling in ecstasy. "Ah, Jesus, Ray, I want you to fuck
me," he groaned.

Ray raised his head and slowly ran his lips and tongue along the furry gap
of skin between Kevin's hole and balls. "Soon," he whispered as he began
kissing Kevin's tightening scrotum.

Kevin groaned and arched his body, flinging his legs as far back as he
could. He wanted Ray in him. He was breathing harshly, his dick hard and
leaking precum incessantly. He wanted to get fucked! "Please, Ray," he
whimpered.

Ray straightened and reached for the tube of Vaseline sitting on the small
lamp-table beside the opened sofa. He uncapped the tube and was about to
lubricate his full five inches of hard, dark pink flesh when Kevin reached
out and took the tube from his hand.

"Let me," asked Kevin. He squeezed a generous dollop of the lubricant onto
the palm of his hand and then reached down, coating Ray's boner liberally,
stroking the hard, warm, sleek penis, gently masturbating Ray.

Ray squealed and tried to pull away as Kevin ran his palm over his
sensitive, crimson-hued helmet. "Oh, my Lord Jesus!" breathed Ray
softly. "Jesus, Kevin, that feels so fucking good!"

Kevin snickered. "That's what it's supposed to do," he replied with a
grin. He released Ray and squeezed another generous portion of lubricant
onto his fingertips. He winced slightly as he thrust his lubed fingers into
his love hole, then thrust in and out several times. Then he reached out
and pulled Ray onto his body. He could feel Ray's lube-slicked dick rubbing
against his belly.  Ray began humping Kevin and kissed him. When their lips
parted Kevin pushed Ray upward.

Ray nodded and pushed his body backward. He straightened and knelt between
Kevin's legs, the tip of his dick just touching Kevin's slightly distended
hole. Kevin wanted him to fuck him, but Ray was not going to do
that. Instead, he was going to make love to Kevin, to return to him in full
measure the pleasure and ecstasy he had been given last night. He reached
down and fingered his iron-hard erection. "Jeez, Kevin, I'm so small!"

Kevin laughed. "You let me be the judge of that!" He groaned loudly as the
slick head of Ray's dick brushed against his hole. It was time. "Now," he
whispered.  Ray pushed his hips slowly forward, using his hand to guide his
turgid organ. There was very little resistance as the curved head of his
dick disappeared into Kevin's body.

Kevin grunted softly and he lifted his hips as high as he could. "Yeah,
that's it Ray. Fuck, that feels good." He was totally relaxed, wanting to
feel every inch of Ray that he could. He pushed back and half of Ray's
hardon slid into him.

"Holy fuck," exclaimed Ray, his mind reeling at the tightness of Kevin's
channel, of the electricity that arced through his body. He pushed again
and his entire dick slid into Kevin. Guided by instinct, and by what they
had done the night before, he waited for Kevin's body to adjust, his thick
pubic bush pressed firmly against Kevin's love trail, Kevin's low-hanging
balls resting against his belly.

Kevin pulled Ray to him and buried his head in Ray's neck. "Yeah, Ray," he
muttered. "Slow, real slow, make me feel it, make it good for both of us."
He felt Ray nod his head, his hair tickling his nose.

Ray set a strong, enjoyable, slow rhythm that pleased them both. As Ray
thrust into him Kevin felt the head of Ray's dick slide against his
prostate. He gasped as a lightning bolt of ecstasy flashed through him. He
clutched Ray's body, slipping his tongue into, then around, Ray's
ear. Kevin's probing tongue in his ear was so erotically sensational that
Ray began thrusting hard, quickening his pace. He began grunting
loudly. "Ungh . . . Ungh . . ." he grunted, his dick thrusting deeper and
deeper into Kevin, deeper than it seemed possible.

With each thrust Ray's dick bumped against Kevin's prostate, causing him to
groan and buck, his body jerking wildly. "Aaah . . . Fuck . . . Fuck . . ."
Ray growled loudly with each inward thrust. He was so stimulated that he
was unaware of the electricity he was sending through his partner's
body. He could feel his hard, taut belly rubbing across Kevin's balls and
solid, leaking dick, a feeling so sensuous that he could barely comprehend
what was happening to him, conscious of nothing but the succeeding waves of
amazing sensations that radiated outward from his trembling dick,
sensations that pushed him closer and closer toward the plateau that leads
to Nirvana.

Ray began increasing his pace wanting, yet not wanting, the incredible
release that he knew awaited him. Ray stifled a scream as he thrust deeply
into Kevin, nearing orgasm. "Kev . . . Kevin! Gonna . . . Gonna cum
. . . Sweet JESUS . . . Gonna CUM . . ." His dick thickened, pulsed and his
balls pumped, his cream flying outward from dick. He threw his head back,
his mouth gaping. "Ungh... CUMMING . . ." he groaned, biting his lip to
keep from shouting as euphoric glory rolled through his body. He thrust his
dick deeply into Kevin and his hips convulsed as he pumped faster and
faster.

Kevin could not control himself. The combination of Ray's restrained
shouting, Ray's belly rubbing across the heated underside of his boner, and
the intensity of feelings as Ray's dick ravaged his prostate was too much
for him. His body tightened and he began to suck avidly on Ray's neck as
his dick spurted his seed, his orgasm so intense that he humped Ray's sweat
rimed belly.

Lost in uncontrollable lust they sucked and pumped until Ray, totally
exhausted, collapsed on Kevin's chest. They lay there, overcome, lost in
the bliss of aftermath of incredible orgasms, their bodies flushed and
heated. Once again their lips met. They held their kiss, moaning and
clutching each other until finally Ray rolled aside.

"Oh, GOD!" Was all Ray could say as he gulped huge lungs full of air. "Oh
GOD!"

Kevin turned on his side and his hand caressed Ray's heaving stomach. "And
you were worried about the size of your dick!"

******

In Barracks 2, where the Storekeepers and Signalmen slept, Rob lay
disconsolately on his bunk, listening to Ryan's muttering in his sleep. On
the other side of Ryan was David lay in his rack, snoring loudly. Except
for the sounds of sleep the barracks was very quiet. Rob tossed and turned,
unable to sleep. He was hot and feeling more than a little guilty. After
Secure Ryan had carefully locked Stores and, atop of pile of carefully
placed blankets, they had fucked themselves into near exhaustion, their
couplings lustful and robust.

Ryan, while he much preferred the passive position in their lovemaking, had
readily agreed to Rob's insistence that he experience every aspect of the
joy of lovemaking. He had happily slipped between Rob's raised legs and
what he lacked in technique he more than made up for in
enthusiasm. Unfortunately, a by-product of their manic thrusting had been
the return of Ryan's problem. Tonight, as they showered, Rob had seen Ryan
wince when he retracted his foreskin to clean the glans of his penis.

Rob blamed himself. He knew about Ryan's problem, and always took great
care when manipulating Ryan's penis, being careful not to pull too much on
the delicate membrane covering the head of Ryan's slim cock. Ryan had
dismissed Rob's genuine concern over the state of his dick and insisted
that he was all right. He had taken one of Doc's pills and gone to bed.

Rob was not so sure and he spent much of the night carefully watching his
dark-haired lover for any signs of discomfort. He had almost convinced
himself that he was worrying over nothing when he got out of bed and lifted
the light counterpane covering Ryan's slumbering form.

Ryan stirred slightly as the cover was lifted from his body. He crooked his
leg and squirmed a little. He was feeling no pain, thanks to the pain
killers Doc had issued him the first time he had reported his problem.

Looking at his sleeping lover Rob saw that the front of Ryan's briefs were
stained, a dime-sized spot of crimson spoiling the pristine whiteness of
the cloth. Rob cursed silently and gently pulled the counterpane over
Ryan. He returned to his bed vowing that tomorrow, before Divisions, Ryan
was going to see Doc and if Doc wanted to do the operation then and there,
he, Rob would hold the little French fuck down!

******

Barracks 8 was quiet. Almost all of the gunners had decamped to the
outdoors, spreading their blankets and pillows on the soft grass between
their Barracks and the drill shed. Brian lay on his bunk, staring into the
gloom, reconciling himself to Dylan's decision. Phantom had been
right. What was done was done. It was time to move on.

******

In the Wardroom Andy was lying awake in his own bed. For a long time he had
lain there, hoping that Kyle would roll over and invite him to share his
bed. It hadn't happened and he could hear Kyle's slow, rhythmic
breathing. With sleep refusing to come Andy finally got out of bed and
padded into the Wardroom lounge. He left the lights off and sat in total
darkness, staring into the black nothingness. He desperately wanted Kyle to
come into the room, smile his silly-ass smile, and tell him to come to
bed. But that was not going to happen. Not now.

Andy moved sluggishly, too depressed and oppressed by the heat. It was
nights like this when he remembered Marty, when he remembered the nights
when they'd been on night exercise in the woods around Parris Island,
huddled together, scared shitless, jumping at every move and whisper of
wind, almost too scared to move for fear that the Gunnery Sergeant would
find them and discover what they'd been doing.

God did he miss Marty. Andy missed the big farm boy dogging his every
footstep; he missed the infectious grin, and the quiet, unassuming way
Marty had of bringing him down to earth from one of his flights of martial
fancy. Dear, sweet, Marty; friend, buddy, lover, dead now since January of
'69, and buried in a wind swept cemetery somewhere in Montana.

While he had accepted that Marty was dead, Andy had never truly gotten over
it. They had shared too many love-filled nights before Marty shipped out to
Vietnam, in fleabag hotels and tumbledown motels, in North Charleston, in
nameless little hamlets up and down the Carolina coast, in hostelries where
no questions were ever asked and two men together raised no eyebrows. From
that first day, at Parris Island, they had been friends. At the end of
their Boot Training, they had been lovers and for thirty glorious days they
had Leave. They had lain together, loved together, and learned
together. Marty would have understood about the money.

Andy snorted. Money! A lousy 25 bucks! Canadian bucks at that! For want of
a nail a kingdom had been lost. For his refusal of a loan a lover had been
lost because Kyle simply refused to understand about the money, nor could
he understand that Andy, as a former Marine and an Officer in the USN Sea
Cadets, he could not, and would not, borrow money under any circumstances,
and certainly not for something so frivolous as a Mess Dinner.

Andy had tried and tried again to explain that his sole income was the pay
he received from the US Navy League. As an O1 (Ensign) he received $466.20
per month, with no incentives and no allowance for quarters, which was a
bitch since he had to pay $50.00 lounge and scrounge to the Canadian Sea
Cadets for feeding and housing him. He had also tried to tell Kyle that he
would not see his pay until he returned to Seattle and the paperwork was
pushed through. His disability pension was banked for his future
education. At the thought of his so-called pension Andy sniffed in
disdain. His pension was based on his USMC rank in 1969: E5, buck Sergeant,
$211.50 per month. No allowances, no lounge, no scrounge.

Andy was, in short, all but broke. Almost every penny he had coming in was
allocated to house him or feed him, or clothe him. There was no room in his
budget for Mess Dinners and as his personal honour would not allow him to
borrow the money from Kyle, he had refused Kyle's well-meant gesture of a
loan. Kyle, accustomed to the casual, freewheeling world of the Sea Cadet
Officer, had called Andy stiff-necked and bull headed. In turn Andy had
told Kyle that he was a spoiled rich kid who didn't know the meaning of
deprivation.

Harsher words had passed between them and finally, angry beyond endurance
that their relationship was ending for such a trivial reason, Andy had
stomped away, leaving an open-mouthed Kyle staring after him. Since then
not a word had passed between them and when it had come time for bed Kyle
had ostentatiously left his underwear on and crawled between the sheets of
his bed and turned his back to Andy.

With a heavy heart and filled with loneliness Andy had retired to the
Wardroom where he sat listening to the faint night sounds and the faintly
ringing bell of the marker buoy at the entrance to the Comox channel.

******

In the Chiefs Mess Val slept soundly, unaware that his cabin mate was
consumed with doubt, tossing and turning, barely understanding the feelings
that more and more filled his mind with longings that always, always
returned to Val.

Tyler had exchanged his briefs for a pair of wide-legged shorts and he lay
atop his bunk, his hand massaging his raging hardon, his mind whirling with
thoughts of Val, hoping that just once more the night visitor would slowly
open the mess door and kneel beside the bunk . . . just once more.

His hand began to move faster and faster

******

In the Gunroom the Twins slept soundly, oblivious to the grunts and groans
coming from the other side of the bulkhead. Thumper, his masturbatory rites
observed, snuggled under his checked coverlet, his hand thrust down the
front of his underwear, protecting his most prized possessions. Beside him
Fred snored away quietly, twitching occasionally, sleeping fitfully, his
body bathed in sweat.

Jon's and Chris's bunks were empty. They were in the Ropewalk ignoring the
heat, loving one another. Harry's and Nicholas's bunks were also
empty. Harry was bunked down with his Sea Puppies and Nicholas was with
Andre.

Greg awoke slowly, then noiselessly left his bunk. Taking great care not to
wake either of the Twins (they were notoriously light sleepers), he felt
around the bottom of his sea chest and found what he knew was there. As
quiet as a wraith he left the Gunroom and sat on the stoop so recently
vacated by the Twins. He opened the bottle and raised it to his lips,
feeling the roughness of the vodka as it burned its way down his throat.

******

Nicholas and Andre walked the length of AURORA and set up their camp on the
shore of the channel leading into Comox harbour. They took great care to
ensure that their makeshift pallets were just below the small rise that
marked the tree line and well above the high tide mark. The sky overhead
was clear and very black, the moon having not yet risen, an ebony carpet
for the millions of diamond stars that shone above the Spit. There was no
breeze to speak of and the waters of the channel were flat calm.

The boys stripped down to their briefs and lay on their improvised beds,
staring at the million points of light overhead, and from time to time
reaching over to gently caress each other. "It is so beautiful here,
Nicholas," sighed Andre contentedly. He squirmed slightly and moved his
body as close as he could to his lover's, feeling the warm flesh as their
hips and thighs touched. He laid his head on Nicholas's firm, chiselled
chest and rested his hand on Nicholas's flat stomach. Andre was very happy.

Nicholas buried his nose in Andre's hair and then kissed the top of his
head. "It's beautiful because I'm with you, petit," he murmured softly. He
slipped his fingers under the elastic waistband of Andre's briefs, the tips
of his fingers just touching the thin pubic bush hidden by the boy's white
underwear.

Ever since the fateful bus ride back from Victoria they had been fervent,
if intermittent lovers. They had not yet fully consummated their union,
first because there was really no place they could, and second, and more
importantly, they had an unspoken agreement to allow their relationship to
take a slow and natural pace.

Andre gave Nicholas's left nipple a small lick. "This is better than the
Flag Locker, Nicholas."

Nicholas chuckled in agreement. As Yeoman of Signals he had access to the
Flag Locker, a square, small compartment lined with shelving and so full of
bunting, flags, poles and assorted signalling paraphernalia that there was
barely room to move, let alone make love. Andre, while he was "Sticks" or
Lead Drummer in the Band, had no access to the School of Wind outside of
Duty Hours. After 1600 the school was usually locked up tight and only
Harry had keys to the place. Mostly they met in the Flag Locker, sitting on
one of the only two pieces of furniture small enough to fit into the
cramped compartment: a student's desk, behind which was a wooden
chair. When he needed to use the desk Nicholas had to climb over it to
reach the chair. They would hold each other, feel each other, and explore
each other, delighting in the sensuous and exotic feelings they
discovered. Unspoken was the realization that to make their union complete
they would, eventually, do it.

Nicholas was not at all sure that he was ready to make love to Andre, nor
was he all that sure he was ready to have Andre make love to him, assuming
that Andre even wanted to. He did love Andre, and he wanted their first
time to be right, to be something they both felt was right, and to do it
when they both knew that it was time.

Andre frankly adored the tall, slim young man whose arms held him so
lovingly. When they were together it felt so wonderful, so natural that he
wondered why he had ever bothered to listen to his two brothers, the
priests; frustrated, wizened prudes that they were. He wanted Nicholas in
every way possible.

"Nicholas?"

"Yes, petit?"

"When we go back to Montreal, will we be together?"

"Andre, je t'aime. Je vous adore tout mon coeur et toute mon ame. Je
toujours volonte," replied Nicholas. He pulled Andre close to him and
kissed him deeply. "I mean it, Andre. I love you with all my heart and
soul."

"It will be difficult, to be together always," warned Andre sadly.

Nicholas lay back and sighed. "I know. Damn, Andre, I wish there was some
place we could just go and be ourselves, just be together."

Andre nodded his agreement. He reached into Nicholas's briefs and cupped
his soft, warm genitals. "I do not think I will like it if we can only see
each other at Cadets. We cannot even see each other after school."

"We will see each other, Andre. We just won't be able to sin." Nicholas
laughed and tickled Andre.

Andre screamed and wiggled, and called Nicholas a very dirty name. He
rolled away and then rolled back, panting, giggling when Nicholas's hand
squeezed his penis through his underwear. "You must be careful, Nicholas,
or Andre le Petit will become Andre le Grand!" he said through his giggles.

Nicholas responded by slowly moving his hand between Andre's legs and
kneading his balls. He gave Andre a quick peck on the lips. "When we get
back to Montreal we still have two weeks left before school starts, right?"

Andre nodded and moaned softly. Mon Dieu, Nicholas had a delicate touch.

"My folks have a summer cottage up near Mont Tremblant. Would your folks
let you come and stay with me, just for a few days?"

"Maybe. Or perhaps your folks will let you visit me at my uncle's farm. It
is in the Gaspe and very isolated. I would like you to come, Nicholas."

"Will we be together? Will we be able to sin?" asked Nicholas. He continued
to caress and massage Andre's cock and balls. "I know we will at my
place. You can share my room." He bent down and licked Andre's belly. He
loved the taste of this boy. His skin was so soft and warm. "God, Andre!"

Andre responded by raising his hips, thrusting into Nicholas's squeezing
hand. He could feel the front of his briefs dampening as the precum oozed
steadily from his erect penis. He reached down and pulled Nicholas's hand
away.

"What? Why did you . . ." asked Nicholas, confused.

Andre smiled and began pushing down his underpants. "Please, Nicholas?"

Nicholas knew what Andre wanted. He nodded and lowered his head, kissing
the skin-covered crown of Andre's thin penis. He slowly pulled Andre's
foreskin down, revealing the wet, purple glans, which gleamed and shone in
the starlight. Nicholas took Andre into his mouth, sucking softly. With his
free hand he cupped Andre's balls, not at all surprised to find them
tight. They had not had sex for two days and they both needed release
badly. Andre whimpered and shivered as Nicholas's tongue bathed his
unsheathed shaft, crying softly as the ultra-sensitive head of his mouse
began pulsing.

Moving his head up and down in slow, deliberate spiralling motions,
Nicholas brought Andre to the brink of glory. Muttering and groaning Andre
began to thrust deliberately, desperate to empty his balls into the warm,
wet, sensuous mouth that enveloped him.  He felt the wonderful feeling
building in his groin and began breathing heavily. Tabernac, Taber
. . . NAC! "Nichol . . ." moaned Andre loudly. Then his body began to jerk
and his hardon began spasming. Nicholas tasted the thick, sweet, juice that
filled his mouth.

Andre arched his body and his eyes rolled back in his head. He thrust
upward, his exposed cock head pulsing as it released more and more of his
incredibly glorious nectar into Nicholas's mouth. Nicholas continued to
suck until Andre, his helmet screaming with sensual overload, yipped and
yelped, then pulled away. He collapsed, breathing so heavily that he could
not speak.

Grinning madly Nicholas quickly pushed down his briefs, kicked them aside
and flung himself onto Andre's body, kissing him open-mouthed, sharing with
him the last vestiges of his shattering orgasm. Andre wrapped his arms and
legs around Nicholas, who began to hump and rub his stone-hard cock against
the side of Andre's still hard erection.

Nicholas could feel the sensitive underside of his penis being savaged as
he thrust through the thin bush of wiry black pubic hair that circled
Andre's cock and balls. He could feel his orgasm building. He felt his
balls filling and his dick, that wonderful, marvellously circumcised dick,
being ravaged as he thrust faster and faster, his heated rod made hotter by
the intensity of the heat generated by the equally thrusting boy beneath
him. "Oh my God, petit, Oh, God, petit!"

Groaning, Nicholas flung his head back and his face contorted as his balls
all but exploded. "PETIT!" shouted Nicholas as his piss slit gaped open and
a huge gout of juice squirted forcefully across Andre's sweat-slicked
belly. Andre thrust upward again, feeling the hot, sticky fluids spurt in a
seemingly never-ending stream from Nicholas's swelled and turgid organ. As
his dick jerked Nicholas growled and moaned. "Ah FUCK!  PETIT!" and as his
cock ejected the last of his seed Nicholas arched his back so hard that
Andre had trouble holding on to him.

Finally, it was over. Breathing harshly Nicholas fell forward and buried
his face in Andre's shoulders; his hips jerking slowly until, like Andre,
his dickhead began screaming. He pulled away and rolled to the side, then
reach out and pulled Andre to him. "Dear, sweet, God, Andre, that felt
good." His hips jerked back quickly as Andre tried to finger his cock
head. "Please, petit, no."

Andre giggled and kissed Nicholas, a small, gentle peck on his lips. "Le
petit Nicholas, he liked that, oui?"

Nicholas stuck out his tongue and grinned. He had never pretended to
greatness, as so many other boys did. He knew that he had a good, solid six
inches, which had Andre beat by an inch. "Le Grand Nicholas didn't like
it. He loved it!"

They lay in each other's arms, enjoying the thrall of their lovemaking as
it began to slowly ebb from their flushed bodies. Andre loved just holding
Nicholas. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along his lover's tanned,
soft skinned body. "You are very beautiful Nicholas," he said with a
contented sigh.

"So are you." Nicholas kissed Andre deeply. When their lips parted he
smiled and ran his fingers through the boy's hair.  "I love you, Andre."

"I know. I know because I also love you, my beautiful maudit Anglais,"
whispered Andre.

"Pas autant que je t'aime vous, mon ange merveilleux, adorable
Francais-Canadien!"

Andre snickered and reached down, running his forefinger across Nicholas's
slick, soft helmet. Nicholas winced slightly but said nothing so Andre
continued to rub softly. "I cannot be an adorable angel, Nicholas," he
sighed theatrically. "I too much enjoy sinning!"

"Well then, you can be my little French-Canadian devil!" Nicholas said with
a grin. He kissed the tip of Andre's nose and then pulled away, signalling
the end of their lovemaking.

Andre nodded, understanding. The head of Nicholas' penis was very tender -
it always was after the tall Yeoman had squirted - just as the tete of
Andre's petit souris screamed if touched after he'd squirted. He laid his
head on Nicholas's chest. He could hear the soft beating of Nicholas's
heart, and his eyes closed. He was contented, happy, and very much in love.

******

Vancouver Airport was as quiet as any airport ever got. As The Gunner
walked down the long concourse from his plane he observed the usual
denizens who seemed always to inhabit airports: students with knapsacks and
bedrolls camped beside the airline counters, waiting for a cheap seat to
become available; bedraggled tourists, always with at least two screaming
children, waiting impatiently for the redeye to anywhere to board; a clutch
of nuns (Why were there always nuns in airports?) sat in a row on one of
the uncomfortable benches that were standard fittings for airports, quietly
chatting or saying their beads. Except for the bar - overpriced and packed
- the other shops and booths lining the concourse were dark.

As he approached the Passenger Pickup area The Gunner noticed a dark haired
young man coming toward him. The young man was not tall, but he was slim,
his well-cut black suit accentuating his firm, muscled body. He had a
square jaw and his close cut, curly black hair and mirror-shined shoes
bespoke a military past. When he was within a few feet of The Gunner the
young man stopped. "Sir Stephen Winslow?" he asked, without a trace of
obsequiousness. His well-modulated, accented voice immediately identified
him as British.

The Gunner coloured slightly, embarrassed that his purely honourary title
was being used. "Yes."

The young man smiled and reached out for The Gunner's suit bag and
suitcase. "My name is Laurence, Sir Stephen. Mr. Michael asked that I meet
you."

"That was kind of him," replied The Gunner as he handed over his
luggage. The look on Laurence's face told him that he clearly expected more
bags. "That's all there is, Laurence."

Laurence nodded discreetly. "If you will come this way Sir Steven, the car
is outside."

The Gunner followed Laurence to the loading platform where he found waiting
for him the most magnificent motorcar he had ever seen, a long, black,
Rolls Royce 1962 Phantom V. His eyes widened at the luxury and unparalleled
elegance the car represented. The excellence of the coachwork was enhanced
by a sterling mascot on the bonnet: a silver Crusader Knight rising out of
a walled city, holding a cross. "Wow," whispered The Gunner, knowing that
his reaction to this magnificence was exposing his plebeian origins.

Stone-faced, Laurence opened the door to the limousine, revealing the
Spanish leather and carved walnut interior. He was not at all surprised at
The Gunner's awe. His origins were just a plebeian as The Gunner's, having
been born in RN Ratings Housing in Gosport. "It is a bit much," murmured
Laurence as he settled himself in the back seat beside The Gunner. He
leaned forward and spoke softly to the young man seated behind the
right-hand wheel. "Home, please, Noel."

As the motorcar slowly pulled away The Gunner noticed what seemed to be a
small battle raging further down the platform. Beside a lime green,
four-door, well weathered Ford sedan stood two white haired, elderly men,
one of whom was gesticulating wildly at a small, Chinese man who was
shrugging and shaking his head. Behind the elderly gentlemen was a small
pile of matched luggage. Beside the luggage stood two black suited, thin,
pale, fey young men. The Gunner did not recognize the two younger men. He
did know the two older gentlemen: Willoughby and Hunter, respectively
Receiver of the Common Treasure and Hospitaller for the Order.

The Gunner cast Laurence a sideways glance. He recognised the deft hand of
Michael Chan. A message had been sent. And received, if the glares directed
at the Rolls as it rolled by the Ford were any indication.

"Why am I getting the impression that me riding in this car is less for my
benefit and more for that of two certain gentlemen?" asked The Gunner
quietly. He could feel two pairs of hostile eyes boring into his neck as
the car left the loading area.

Laurence cocked an eyebrow and smiled knowingly. Obviously this young man
deserved every bit of esteem Mister Michael expressed for him. He opened
the side panel beside him and brought out a red, gold tooled
portfolio. Then he pressed a small ivory button on the control panel built
into the armrest of the seat. The back of the car was immediately filled
with a soft glow of light. "Mister Michael feels that the right gesture at
the right time speaks volumes." He opened the portfolio and handed a paper
to The Gunner. "Your schedule, sir."

The Gunner took the paper and read it. In addition to two full days of
meetings and ceremonies he noticed that each day he would start out from
the house in British Properties. He pointed to the first item of
business. "Another gesture?"

Laurence glanced at the paper and smiled. "Mr. Michael asks that you spend
your time in the city at his home. He asked me to assure you that the
accommodations will be much better than the Best Western." Then he grinned,
widely, showing perfect white teeth.

The Gunner laughed uproariously. He liked this young man. "Michael's
'gestures' are as subtle as a whack between the eyes with a two-by-four."

Laurence joined in the laughter. "The amount of subtlety depends on the
stubbornness of the mule!"

The Gunner thought of a certain jug-eared green-eyed mule and their recent
conversation in Comox. Then his smile turned into a slight frown.

Laurence saw the frown. "Is there a problem, sir?" he asked.

The Gunner shrugged slightly. "I had hoped for an hour or two of free
time. Still, no matter." He smiled thinly. "Anything else in that Pandora's
box?"

Laurence gave The Gunner a sheaf of papers. "Mister Michael's thoughts on
certain issues, Sir Stephen. He asks that you read these papers and comment
later on."

The Gunner cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. A quick read through the
papers told him that Michael was planning major changes. In some respects
he was about to stage a palace coup. "Have you read these?" he asked,
indicating the papers.

"Absent a Page, Mister Michael has asked me to be your Secretary. I am to
assist you in every way possible. In order to assist you, yes, I am privy
to the contents of those documents."

The Gunner considered Laurence for a few moments. "We will, I take it, be
working closely together?"

"Yes."

"Then perhaps you will tell me a little about yourself." The Gunner shifted
slightly in his seat. Laurence seemed a nice young man, and obviously he
enjoyed Michael's trust. Still, he did not know anything about his new
'Secretary'. "You might begin with telling me which Service you were a
member of."

Laurence straightened his back. "Royal Marines, Small Boat Service. I had
seven years with them. I am still a member of the Royal Marines Reserve."
He nodded toward the driver. "As is Noel. We are not yet members of the
Order. We have been in Mister Michael's service for two years. I am
26-years old."

"Are you my minder or my advisor?"

Laurence gave The Gunner a long, steady gaze. "With respect, while there
are some who need 'minding', you are not one of them. Mister Michael speaks
highly of you. Major Meinertzhagen shares Mister Michael's opinion. If they
did not you would not be riding in this motor car and I would be back at
the house polishing the silver!"

Suitably chastened, The Gunner returned the papers to Laurence. "Did they
tell you that I am opinionated, stubborn, and brute ugly when I want to
be?"

Laurence nodded and smiled slightly. "They did. They also told me that you
insist on perfection, that you do not suffer fools gladly, and that you
insist on absolute honesty. They consider your personal integrity to be
above reproach, that you have never, and will never, abuse, or use your
authority or power to further your own ends."

"I have a terrible temper."

"I am aware of that."

"I can't abide a liar or dishonesty of any sort."

"I assure that I am not a liar and I am still a Royal Marine."

The Gunner thought of Andy. It could have been him sitting in the car
instead of Laurence. "I speak my mind, and I can be very blunt," The Gunner
continued with stern honesty. "I give honest opinions and I expect the same
in return. If I ask your opinion I expect an honest answer, no matter how
unpleasant the answer might be."

"Understood," replied Laurence calmly.

"If you fuck up, you fuck up once," The Gunner warned bluntly. "If I fuck
up, or am about to fuck up, I'll expect you to whack me in the balls if you
have to."

Laurence grinned. He was very pleased indeed at The Gunner's bluntness and
plain speaking. "Then it is a very good thing indeed that the Major showed
me where he keeps the two-by-fours."

******

Michael Chan was waiting at the bottom of the double steps leading up to
his house. When The Gunner got out of the limousine he advanced a few steps
and held out his hand. "Stephen, how very good to see you again." He shook
The Gunner's hand and turned to indicate the Major, who was standing a few
paces away. "You know Major Meinertzhagen?"

"Only by reputation," replied The Gunner honestly. He shook the Major's
hand.  Major Meinertzhagen smiled warmly. "As I know you. I suspect that
both our reputations have grown with the telling."

Both Michael and The Gunner laughed. Michael stretched out his arm,
indicating the house. "Shall we go in?" Inside the house Michael led The
Gunner and the Major into his office. He went immediately to the drinks
cart. "I trust you had a pleasant flight. Scotch?"

The Gunner nodded. "Rather boring, actually." Which was true. The plane had
been empty except for the flight crew. The only other passenger booked, the
Army Warrant Officer who had been snoring on the bench in the Departures
Lounge had actually been passed out and missed the flight. Since White
Knuckle Airlines was not known for the quality of the amenities it offered
its passengers there had been no in-flight anything.

Michael smiled knowingly. "We shall have to do better than that." He passed
out the drinks - no ice, The Gunner noted - and sat on the tapestry sofa
flanking the fireplace. "So, Stephen, what do you think of Laurence?"
Michael took a small sip of his drink, his poker face giving no indication
why he had asked the question.

"He seems, at first glance, a very competent and personable young man. I
rather like him," replied The Gunner. "You are up to something", he
thought.

Michael looked at the Major and nodded. The Major reached into the breast
pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to
Michael who barely looked at it. "And at second glance?"

"I gave him a rough time coming here. He didn't back down." The Gunner
sipped his drink, thinking, "You are definitely up to something."

"Once a Bootneck, always a Bootneck," sniped the Major.

The Gunner chuckled and looked at Michael. "Another gesture?" he
asked. "And so is the Major."

Michael shook his head. "Not at all.  The reception committee and the car
were, I admit, somewhat less than subtle gestures. Laurence was not, and is
not, a gesture. He is, if you will, a test."

"A test?" The Gunner looked into his glass of scotch. "And here it comes."

"Stephen, as Chancellor you will be asked to approve future members of our
Order." Michael stood up and replenished the drinks. "On your word, based
on your intuition and your judgement of character, rests the future of our
Order. Some would call it a terrible responsibility."

Once again The Gunner noticed Major Meinertzhagen staring intently at him,
and realized that this conversation was some sort of a final
examination. "I take it Laurence is a candidate?" asked The Gunner
carefully, not taking his eyes from the Major.

Michael nodded and said, simply, "Yes, a candidate."

"And one whom they want badly," thought The Gunner. "Well, my lads, I might
be cheap, but I am not easy." He looked levelly first at Michael, then at
the Major. "Any decision I might make will be made without fear or favour,
and not subject to outside influences. It will be based on his
qualifications and my impression of him. And I might say no."

Major Meinertzhagen shot Michael a look. Few men had ever told Michael
'no', and fewer still had been given the opportunity to regret saying
it. Michael's face was expressionless. Michael ignored the Major's look and
said, without a trace of anger, "That goes without saying."

The Gunner was not afraid to make a judgement call. "Then yes, I would
accept Laurence as a candidate."

"Without asking if he was a member of the Brotherhood?" asked Major
Meinertzhagen, rising from his seat.

"Does it matter? A candidate's sexuality has never been an impediment. It
matters only that his candidacy will eventually lead to the betterment of
the Order."

"You approve of him, then?" asked Michael pointedly.

"Enough to sponsor him?" put in the Major.

The Gunner replied without hesitation. "Yes. So long as he has two other
sponsors and either has been, or is willing to be, circumcised." The Gunner
reached out for the piece of paper that The Major had handed Michael. "I'll
sign Laurence's petition now.

******

When the Major left the room Michael waited until the door closed before he
looked at The Gunner. "Would you have said no?  Would you have said no,
knowing that Laurence enjoyed the Major's patronage?" He paused for
effect. "And mine?"

The Gunner looked levelly at Michael. "If, on balance, I felt that
rejecting Laurence was better for the Order than accepting him, I would
have said no."

"Why did you say yes?"

The Gunner thought a moment. "Michael, there are far too many in the Order
who are satisfied with the status quo, or with feathering their nests. Or
advancing their special 'pets'."

"And Laurence will not?" Michael smiled inwardly. He had not misjudged this
man.

"No. Laurence strikes me as a strong, steady, level-headed young man." He
shrugged and smiled. "Also, I cheated. I knew who the high and mighty
personages supporting him were." He stood up and walked to the drinks table
where he poured another drink, then raised the decanter at Michael, who
shook his head, declining another drink. "I won't lie to you, Michael,"
continued The Gunner as he resumed his seat. "I know of your
reputation. I've heard the rumours and I saw the look Meinertzhagen gave
you when I told you I might have said no. I also know that the good Major
is, shall we say, a man who believes in direct and final action."

Michael nodded. "Go on."

"Michael, if you wanted a yes man you would not have asked me to be your
Chancellor. You are the type of man who leaves little, if anything to
chance. You have what you euphemistically call friends all over the
place. They have no doubt told you that I am not a pushover, that I will
not compromise my principles and I will not, under any circumstances yield
to pressure simply to please you."

Michael smiled slowly. "Perhaps my powers are greatly exaggerated."

The Gunner took a small drink from his glass. "With the greatest respect,
Michael, bullshit!"

Michael laughed softly and shook his head. "Stephen, you will make a
wonderful Chancellor!"  He stood up and walked to where The Gunner was
standing. "Soon, very soon, Stephen, we will talk about my plans. Tomorrow,
you will be elected Chancellor. I will have only one request for you."

"Which is?"

"Find me one thousand Laurences!"

******

As dawn approached a warm wind began blowing across the Spit and the
denizens of the various nomad encampments began waking.  Harry, feeling
gritty, sweaty, and out of sorts, woke his Sea Puppies and sent them into
their barracks to wash.

In the Ropewalk Chris and Jon, sated from too much sex and tired from lack
of sleep, kissed each other awake, dressed and went outside where they sat
and watched the sun rise.

In the Wardroom Andy uncoiled himself from the chair he'd spent the night
sleeping in and groaned loudly. His back and neck were killing him. He
shuffled from the lounge and into his cabin. The dim light from the hall
illuminated the foot of Kyle's bed. Andy stood there, looking at the
sleeping form. As he watched, Kyle stirred and rolled over, turning his
back.  Andy sighed, went to his locker, pulled out his dhobi gear and left
the cabin.

In the Chiefs' Mess Tyler woke with a start. He sat up and looked
around. Val had hardly moved during the night. He was lying flat on the top
of his bunk, naked, his legs slightly spread, his morning woody standing
tall. Tyler stared at Val for a long time before getting out of bed. He
quickly stripped off his shorts, freeing his own morning erection. His mind
was reeling with mixed feelings of desire and revulsion. He told himself
that he should not be looking at Val, that he should not be thinking what
he was thinking.

Tyler rummaged in his locker, trying not to make too much noise and wake
his sleeping roommate. He found his shaving gear and a dingy towel and as
he turned and as he walked softly by Val's sleeping body he stopped and
stared at Val's morning woody protruding from his boxers, the head
glistening damply in the dim, morning light.

Moaning softly, Tyler reached out his hand and his fingers barely crossed
the curving head of Val's penis, feeling the heat of Val's erection. Val's
penis twitched and a small drop of clear liquid squeezed from his piss
slit.

Tyler, as if touched by liquid fire, quickly snatched his hand away then
hurried from the room. As he turned the corner into the corridor leading to
the heads he raised his hand to his lips, tasting the warm, slick effluent
that barely coated his fingertips, tasting a little bit of Val.

In the Gunroom the Twins slept on, while Thumper, who had heard Tyler leave
his Mess, burrowed under his thin coverlet. He slipped his hand under the
elastic waistband of his briefs and slowly stroked the firm flesh rising
from his groin. He closed his eyes and slowly pumped his morning hardon,
shrugging that he had to change his undies anyway. Greg stirred restlessly,
oblivious to everything around him, dreaming bad dreams, his alcohol-fogged
brain deadening the pain the dreams brought him.

At the end of the spit Andre woke slowly, blinking away the sleep. He moved
his head slightly and nuzzled Nicholas's pubic bush. Andre loved the smells
of this handsome English boy and he breathed deeply. Then he moved again
and his lips found the round, firm, and lovely pink head of Nicholas's soft
penis. Andre sucked slowly and Nicholas stirred.

******

Complaining loudly, 200 boys began their morning routines. There was no
water for showers. There was enough water for the older boys to shave and
enough water to wash pits, groins and the thin film of dried perspiration
and windblown sand that seem to cover them all. After washing, the cadets
began dressing. Their first problem was what to wear under their sports
gear. Unlike Harry, who never wore a jock if he could help it, the rest of
the cadets obeyed regulations, putting on their supporters over their
underwear. Which was fine except nobody had any underwear and nobody wanted
to wear crusty jocks. As Killian put it, he only had one set of upper deck
fittings and while, he admitted, his fittings hadn't gotten much wear and
tear thus far, he wasn't taking any chances. He would go negative jock and
let the Chief PTI say what he liked.

The second problem was the uniform of the day. Each cadet had two uniforms,
Number One Blues, and Number 11 Whites, white drill bells and jumper. Each
uniform was worn with a heavily starched and ironed gun shirt. Both
uniforms, while sharp looking and, to the cadets' teenaged minds, designed
by God to show off their bodies and drive the opposite sex into paroxysms
of sexual desire, the blue serge cloth and white drill had a tendency to
roughness. Killian's tackle was once again held up as an example.

The Sea Puppies, who weren't all that hot to trot about bouncing around the
parade square at the crack of dawn, went in search of their Sea Daddy and
whined to Harry, who was in mid-tirade at Thumper for beating off in
bed. His mood was not improved when Thumper pointed out that Harry was
known, on occasion, to do exactly the same thing, only louder.

The Twins, convulsed with laughter, hid under their coverlets. Two Strokes,
who had a Guard and Steerage, pretended to be asleep, praying that Harry
would not notice that he was naked under the covers and that his own 4-inch
mount was at Action Stations.

Harry, who was just as eager to avoid morning exercises as the next cadet,
listened and heeded the plaints of his Puppies. He marched into the Petty
Officers Mess and woke Mike who, while normally the most placid of
individuals, was not at all amused by Harry pulling on his big toe and
demanding that he "WAKE UP!"  Mike was hot, he was sweaty, and he was
hornier than a two-peckered owl in the moonlight. Phillip had had the
Morning Watch so they had not had a chance to be together last night.

"You have a problem!" announced Harry loudly. There was a muttered growl
and a curse from behind him. He turned and saw Little Big Man staring at
him. Harry gave him a withering look. Little Big Man wisely decamped to the
heads to wash up.

"What problem, and please, Harry, don't yell." said Mike as he crawled out
of his fart sack. Much to Harry's surprise Mike was as naked as the day
that he'd been born.

"My Sea Puppies have pointed out that you insist on them wearing jocks!"
growled Harry indignantly.

"Me?" Mike's eyes widened. "I didn't write the fucking regulation.  Go and
complain to the guy who did."

"He's not here, you are," returned Harry. "Most of the boys don't have
anything to wear under their shorts. Do you want to be responsible for 38
sets of tackle being rubbed raw while you make their owners jump up and
down?"

The thought of 38 Sea Puppies whining was not a pleasant prospect. Mike
tried to temporize. "Well, Harry, I really don't know what I can . . ."

"You can ease back on the exercises is what you can do!" snarled Harry in
reply.  Mike thought a moment, idly wiping away the rivulet of sweat
coursing down his bare chest. "How about if we cancel this mornings
exercises?" he asked with a grin. "It's better than having you bitch at me
after 38 kids have bitched at you."

Harry was shocked. He could scarcely believe that Mike Sunderland would
utter such heresy. He cocked his head, waiting for the sound of the Veil in
the Temple of Jockdom being rent asunder to roll through the Mess. "Cancel?
Just forget the whole thing?" asked Harry warily.

"Sure," confirmed Mike. He turned, rummaged in his locker and pulled out a
pair of shorts. "See these? They're all I have left. I'm in the same boat
as everybody else. I've been too busy to do a laundry so I'm down to
these." This was the truth. Mike had been busy, only he was not about to
tell Harry that he'd been busy making out with Phillip, called the
Assistant, every chance they got.

"We'll have to run it by Tyler . . ." said Harry sceptically.

Mike shrugged and pulled on his clean shorts. "So we'll run it by Tyler."

As they walked down the length of barracks Harry put one arm around Mike's
shoulders. "You know, Mike, I couldn't help but notice, but, well, your
dick has gotten bigger."

Mike stopped dead in his tracks. "Harry, you're nuts. And what are you
doing looking at my dick?"

"Well, you will wave it in the breeze for anyone to look at, Mike," replied
Harry blandly. "Now, come on, how'd you do it? Exercise, a special diet?"

"Harry . . ."

Harry began easing Mike toward the door leading to the Gunroom. "I'm not
asking for me, you understand. The Pride is as perfect as it can get and
you can't improve on perfection."

"Harry . . ."

"It's for Two Strokes, you see. He's not a bad guy, even if he can be a
prick sometimes."

Mike pushed open the door to the Gunroom and entered.  Harry had not
released his hold on him. Mike was not sure what Harry was up to. He was
also not sure what Harry was going on about. He hadn't noticed any sudden
growth spurt down there.

"Come on, Mike, you can tell me," continued Harry. "You know what it's like
to go through life with a small dick. Two Strokes is in the same boat. He's
a little feller, you know, and if we can help him I think we should help
him."

Mike looked up and saw Two Strokes, who had been in the washplace having a
stoker's scrub, strolling down the Gunroom. Mike couldn't help but notice
that Two Strokes was a little feller. He also did not dare tell Harry that
any growth he might have had - and which certainly could not have helped
Two Strokes - was due to Phillip, and what they'd been doing together.
After all, that which is used develops, or so the saying went.

Two Strokes, oblivious to the discussion concerning his most private and
prized possession greeted the two teens. "Hey guys, how they hanging'?" He
could not understand when Mike suddenly broke into uncontrollable laughter.

******

The Phantom awoke at 0400 feeling exactly like ten pounds of shit in a
five-pound bag. He had not slept well, tossing and turning most of the
night, fretting and stewing away the hours, berating himself for what he
had said to The Gunner. He left his room and went into the bathroom where
he shaved, poked and pulled at the incipient bags under his eyes, growled
at his reflection, showered, dressed, and then drove to work.

After greeting Chef, Ray, Sandro and the Brats, The Phantom puttered
around, waiting for the early morning diners to show up, not saying all
that much. Chef, on the other hand, was in a wonderful mood. He'd had a
solid eight hours sleep, Ray and Kevin had not left too much evidence
behind in his office, Randy and Joey were working like little beavers,
Sandro was actually smiling, and nobody had burned, dropped or ruined
anything. His infectious good humour left The Phantom unmoved, which meant
something was wrong. Phantom was normally an open, gregarious young man and
walking around with a face on him like a smacked arse was not normal for
him.

Chef watched and listened, and learned nothing beyond the fact that Phantom
had driven The Gunner to the airport last night.  Ray was as much in the
dark as he was.

As breakfast progressed word filtered through that not only was morning
callisthenics cancelled but that the dress for Ceremonial Divisions would
be sports gear. Word also came down that laundry would be collected at 1000
and taken to Base.

Chef, worried, watched as The Phantom listlessly went about his
duties. Finally, using the table linens stored in the Wardroom Store as an
excuse, he called The Phantom into his Office. "So, Phantom, do you want to
talk about it?" he asked after The Phantom had settled on the sofa.

The Phantom remembered Brian telling him that sometimes it just helps to
talk about things. He looked at Chef, his face crestfallen. "The Gunner and
me, we sort of had a fight," he admitted with a sad look on his face.

Chef raised an eyebrow. "Sort of?"

"Well, I said some things about, um, certain things, and I really hurt his
feelings."

"May I ask what the argument was about?"

The Phantom squirmed a bit in his seat. "Well, it really wasn't an
argument, Chef.  It was just, well, he was talking about this Order or
whatever, and he started to tell me about these Knights and how they found
a piece of the True Cross and . . ."

The Phantom's sceptical tone caused Chef to raise one eyebrow. He said
nothing, however. During his years as Proctor to the Order he had heard
that same tone many times. Phantom would require a careful and delicate
touch and . . .

The Phantom saw the look on Chef's face. No, it couldn't be.  Chef wasn't
. . .

Chef stood up and extended his hand. "Pax Vobiscum, Phantom."

******

"Come on, hurry up," said Rob impatiently. He turned and motioned at the
small, thin figure that shuffled some five paces behind him. Ryan mumbled
something about some people not having to worry about their danglies as he
kicked at the gravel of the path. Rob scowled and waited until Ryan caught
up to him.  "Look, all Doc is going to do is look at you."

"And then start hacking away at my dick!" retorted Ryan.

"He didn't last time," replied Rob with an impatient gesture. "And he's not
going to hack away at it!"

"You don't have to worry, it's not your dick!"

"Ryan, even if he does have to circumcise you it's for your own good! You
know that!"

"Major Phelps says it will mutilate me."

"It's not Major Phelps's dick that dripping!"

"It will hurt."

"What do you think anaesthetic is for? And pain killers"

They stopped outside of the canteen and sat on one of the benches in the
breezeway flats. Ryan ostentatiously sniffed his armpits. "I stink. I need
a shower. You always shower before you see the doctor."

"They have a shower in Sick Bay. I'm sure if you ask, Matron will let you
use it."

Ryan shuddered at the thought of having to confront Matron. "I don't have
any underwear on. I can't let Matron see me without any underwear on."

"It's not Matron who's going to see you," replied Rob calmly. "And unless
you pull down your shorts how is she going to know?"

Realizing that he was getting nowhere, Ryan tried another tack. "Major
Phelps says that if I get my foreskin cut off I won't be sensitive down
there anymore. You know, when I have sex, it won't feel . . ."

Rob growled. "Ryan, do you remember what happens to me when I blow my
load?"

Ryan giggled at the thought. Rob bucked, rolled, moaned, groaned and all
but howled at the moon when he ejaculated, which did not say much for the
loss of sensitivity argument. "Major Phelps says I'll get trauma."

"You'll get what?"

"I'll get trauma. I'll have nightmares forever about my foreskin."

"I have nightmares about your fucking foreskin!" Rob was losing his
temper. It was obvious that this Major Phelps critter had brainwashed Ryan
with everything negative he could think of. "I was circumcised when I was
three days old. I do not remember it, I have never thought about it, and I
sure as fuck never had nightmares about it!"

Rob's patience had worn thin and his sleepless night had diminished his
tolerance for Ryan's continued, whining reluctance. He stood up and began
to walk away.

"Where are you going?" demanded Ryan.

"Back to the barracks. I have to pack my laundry for the pick-up after
Divisions."

"But you said you'd stay with me!"

Rob rounded on Ryan.  "Look, Ryan, your dick's a mess. You know it, I know
it! Either you take care of it or you don't. It's your dick. Just do
something, for Christ's sake."

Ryan reached out and pulled Rob's arm. "Rob, I'm scared," he said softly.

"I know, Ryan, I know," replied Rob. Taking a deep breath he sat down again
and put his arm around Ryan. "Ryan, I only want what's best for you. All
I'm saying is go and see Doc. He might not even think you have to be
clipped. He fixed you up the last time."

Ryan sighed heavily. "The last time he put some stuff on it to stop the
bleeding. It hurt a little." He looked at Rob and snickered. "But not as
bad as the time I used the styptic pencil."

His eyes wide with shock, Rob gasped, "You used a styptic pencil on your
dick?" He reached out and rubbed Ryan's bare arm. "Fuck me, Ryan, that shit
burns!"

"Tell me about it. I sure danced around after I did it."

"Now who would ever tell you to do something as stupid as that? That stuff
is for when you cut yourself shaving! You use it on your face, not your
dick!"

"Well, I was bleeding and my Dad . . ."

"God damn it to hell!" Rob exploded. The very thought of poor Ryan putting
styptic on his dick was appalling. That his father had suggested it was too
much. Then he remembered that Ryan's father hadn't drawn a sober breath in
years, and wouldn't know a foreskin from the foc'sle at the best of
times. "Ryan, I am not asking you to do anything you don't want to do.  I
am telling you never to use that styptic stuff again."

"Don't worry, I won't." He stood up and gestured for Rob to follow. "Come
with me to Sick Bay, please?"

******

As Rob and Ryan slowly made their way to Sick Bay the other cadets hurried
past. 0800 was fast approaching and Ceremonial Divisions were
imminent. Everybody wanted to get Divisions over and done with because they
also had Captain's Rounds to look forward to.

The cadets formed in their Divisions under the direction of the Chiefs and
Petty Officers, the Guard, with Kyle in front, waited on one side of the
parade square. On the other side The Band, Harry to the fore, waited
impatiently. The sun, while still low down the horizon, was very hot. There
was a slight breeze blowing from the shore, but it was warm and did nothing
to cool down overheated bodies.

Harry fidgeted and squirmed as the sweat coursed wetly down his sides from
his armpits, and down the inside of his legs from his crotch. Like all of
the other cadets he was dressed in sports gear and his T-shirt was
soaked. His shorts, under which was nothing but Harry, clung wetly to his
ass and crotch. He glanced irritably at his watch. He glared as Nicholas
raised the Prep flag up the mast. Harry grimaced, groaned, squirmed and
wiggled as a small, annoying rivulet of perspiration began coursing its way
down his penis.

"Harry, please, you make want to pee," whined Andre.

"Are we ever going to get this show on the road?" asked the Bass
Drummer. His name was Lucius but everybody called him Fozzy, as he bore a
striking resemblance to the bear of Muppet fame.

Harry consulted his watch again. He looked over toward the Headquarters
Building. There was still no sign of the officers. "Right," he growled. He
turned and fixed his eye on the musicians. "Number Seventy-Two,
fortissimo!"

******

In the Executive Officer's cabin the officers had gathered for morning
coffee and to discuss the day's coming events. The Commanding Officer had
joined them and was explaining his reasoning for not doing an inspection
when there came such a blast of music - the brass section of the Band,
fortissimo - that Dave Eddy jumped in his seat and spilled coffee all over
his last set of tropical white trousers. Fortunately the coffee was
lukewarm.

"What in the hell is that!" yelped Andy as the music continued to soar.

Sub-Lieutenant Ramseur, newly commissioned and new appointed Band Officer,
smiled thinly. "Also Sprach Zarathustra, by Richard Strauss," he said with
a throaty chuckle. "More familiarly known as the Fanfare and Overture to
2001:A Space Odyssey."

"Ha, ha, ha," snarled Dave as he tried to wipe away the coffee stain with a
paper napkin. "HAL will be proud of the little darlings!"

Number One stifled his laughter by pretending to cough. Father decided that
his pipe needed filling urgently. Andy, ever the helpful Marine offered
Dave his napkin. Wally and No "H" decided that a raid on the pastry supply
was in order.

"Now, David, do calm down," soothed Father. "We are overlong and it bodes
hot this day. So hot I think we'll dispense with Ceremonial Divisions." He
looked at Number One. "I think we'll just do a quick look at them and then
have them do a run through of the Ceremony of the Flags." Number One nodded
his agreement. "The laundry situation is solved?" asked Father.

"The truck will be here at 0930. They can do their smalls in town at the
Laundromat. Base has laid on some buses."

The Commanding Officer frowned. "I wish we could tell them that the water
situation had improved." Father studied his pipe.  "A most uncomfortable
situation, really. I know. When I was in HERMIONE, on the old China Station
one of the condensers went out and we had no water . . ."

Number One harrumphed loudly. Lately Father had developed a tendency toward
reminiscing at the drop of a hat.  Once he got started it was difficult to
shut him up. "The Met boys tell me that there's a front moving up from the
south. We should get some rain by tomorrow night. Cool things down a bit,"
he said quickly, hoping that Father would take the hint.

Father glared balefully at the Executive Officer. "But not enough to raise
the water pressure." There was another blast of music from the parade
square. "Gentlemen, the natives are getting restless." He stood up and led
his officers from the room.

******

"The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things," said Doc, "Of
shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, and whether Ryan should have a little
operation."

Ryan was sitting on the examination table, a hangdog look on his face. He
raised his eyes and gave Doc a sad look. "It's gotta happen, huh?" He was
wearing only a thin hospital gown, which was open at the back and his bare
bum was sticking to the paper covering the table.

Doc nodded. "Ryan, me lad, if I didn't think it necessary I wouldn't
suggest it to you." He hoisted himself into a sitting position beside
Ryan. "You have a problem, and it's not going to get any better. I can give
you more pills for the pain, I can clean you up, I can give you a lecture
on personal hygiene, but the fact of the matter is that you need to be
circumcised." Ryan sighed and laid his head on Doc's shoulder. Surprised at
this show of trust and affection, Doc put his arm around Ryan's
shoulder. "Ryan, it is not the end of the world. You have your surgery and
in two or three weeks you'll be as right as rain."

"Will it hurt?"

"Once the local wears off, yes, but only for a little while."

"Major Phelps said that it hurts for weeks and weeks."

Doc managed to keep his temper under control. "Major Phelps is full of
shit," he said firmly. "He doesn't believe in circumcision so he's lying
through his teeth and using myth, exaggeration and old wives' tales to
frighten you into making the wrong decision." He gave Ryan a soft
hug. "There will be postoperative discomfort. It's an operation, after
all. During the procedure you won't feel a thing, I promise."

"It won't look, you know, ugly, will it. I mean, all scarred and ripped up
and . . ."

"Major Phelps again?" asked Doc gently.

Ryan nodded.

Doc ground his teeth to keep from bellowing imprecations at the so-called
Doctor Major Phelps. He took a deep breath and looked directly at Ryan, who
was shaking slightly from nervousness. "The only scar will be a pale ring
around your penis. You've seen the other boys. What do they look like?"

Ryan thought a moment and pictured Rob in his mind's eye. He smiled
shyly. "Pretty nice, actually."

"You want to look like that?"

Ryan nodded slowly.

"Then you shall, I promise you!" Doc jumped off the table. He held Ryan's
hand and squeezed gently.

"Will I have to go to hospital?" asked Ryan.

"No. We'll do it here. The procedure takes about an hour. You'll spend the
night in the ward and tomorrow, if there's no bleeding or complications,
you'll go back to your own little bed."

"And it won't hurt?"

"Not at all. I'll use a local anaesthetic." Doc grinned widely. "Unless you
want me to find a bullet for you to bite on?"

******

Laurence pushed open the door and walked into the bedroom, the soft, green
carpet cushioning and silencing his footsteps as he approached the tall
window. He stopped and pushed aside the pale green and gold-figured drapes
and the hard rays of the morning sun streamed into the room, filling it
with natural light.

The Gunner had awakened the moment he heard the door to his room
opening. When he saw that it was Laurence, come to wake him, he stretched
and yawned. He looked up and saw the slightly coved and moulded ceiling
above his bed. If only Mother could see him now.

His room was large, but not overly so, and cozy, rather than opulent. The
walls were papered in a Regency pattern paper that matched the draperies
that hung on the windows. The furniture, including the bed, was very old,
and very solid. Across from the bed was a working fireplace flanked by two
pale beige, rather plain sofas. There was a chest-on-chest that gleamed
with the patina of age, a partner's desk and a gentleman's dressing
table. Beside the dressing table was a silent butler, on which were hung
his blazer and grey flannels.

Laurence bid The Gunner a cheerful good morning and motioned for Noel to
come into the room. Noel carried a large silver tray on which sat a coffee
service, a china teapot, cups and several covered dishes. He quietly began
setting the table that stood in the middle of the room - a round, heavy
piece inlaid with magnificent marquetry. Noel pulled one of the chairs that
stood under the windows up to the table and waited patiently for a very
self-conscious and embarrassed Gunner (he had slept as he normally slept,
in his boxers and T-shirt), to get out of bed.

Laurence, as if it were an every day occurrence, went into the adjoining
dressing room and returned with a large, dark blue robe. The Gunner nodded
his thanks and reached for the robe. Laurence shook his head slowly and
held the garment out. The Gunner, even more embarrassed, allowed Laurence
to slip the robe over his shoulders. He walked to the table and sat in the
chair that Noel held out for him.  Noticing that Noel was wearing a white
jacket The Gunner groaned softly.

"Is there a problem, sir?" asked Laurence as he gave Noel a what the fuck
did you do? look.

The Gunner looked at the two clearly worried men and chuckled. "I totally
forgot that I promised to run an errand for a friend. Noel's jacket
reminded me."

Both Laurence and Noel were visibly relieved. Michael had told them that
the man was to be coddled, pandered to, and made happy in any and every way
possible.

"Perhaps I might be of assistance?" offered Laurence.

"I really don't want to bother you, Laurence."

"I assure you, sir, it will be no bother. Now then, what can I do?"

The Gunner stood up and walked to the bedside table where he picked up the
small leather portfolio in which he carried his papers and notes. He opened
it and found the piece of paper he was looking for and handed it to
Laurence who glanced at the paper and then extended his arm toward the
table. "Please sir, your breakfast.  Coffee, croissants and some fruit."

While The Gunner had once seen service in a stately home he had never been
served. He found it both embarrassing and pleasant. "I had hoped for an
hour or two free time," he said, indicating the piece of paper in
Laurence's hand. "The man I need to see is the Chief Storekeeper at HMCS
DISCOVERY. I'm hoping he has some stewards jackets I could borrow."

Laurence glanced at the paper again. There was a name, and a list of sizes
of jackets. "Naval stewards?" he asked looking up.  "Navy blue stand-up
collar and cuffs?"

The Gunner nodded. "Yes.  Looking at Noel's jacket reminded me that I
promised to get some." He sipped some of the coffee Noel had poured for
him. The liquid was hot, and delicious. "I thought you were a Bootneck."

Laurence smiled. "I was, and am, as is Noel. However, before we joined the
SBS we were Fleet Marines. We did a commission in CUMBERLAND. In addition
to manning "Y" turret during Action Stations we were officers' stewards."

"Comprehensive pretending to be public school, if you get my meaning sir."
Noel's burr betrayed his Scottish ancestry.

"You must forgive Noel, sir, he's really very Bolshie at heart," said
Laurence with a slight smile.

The Gunner saw a look pass between the two men. He'd seen that look before
and knew at once that they were more than friends and he suspected that
when Laurence went to bed last night he'd not slept alone.

"Och, just because the Queen says a mon is a gentleman it does nae follow
that he is." Noel sniffed and tilted his nose in the air.

"Are you always this outspoken?" asked The Gunner. Noel's frankness was
refreshing.

"Unfortunately, he is," answered Laurence.  He quickly shooed Noel from the
room. "You must forgive him. He still has a few rough edges."

The Gunner motioned for Laurence to sit down. "I still have a few rough
edges." He looked steadily at Laurence as he reached for the coffee
pot. "Coffee?"

Laurence nodded, feeling a trifle ill at ease. He was supposed to be the
servant around here.

"Michael asked me to find him a thousand Laurences," said The Gunner as he
poured the coffee. "Which leads me to think that he has plans for
you. You're no servant, Laurence." He put the coffee pot down. "So then,
what are you? Counsellor?  Advisor? Future confidant? Hardly a spy, I
think. Knowing Michael he has a dossier on me at least an inch thick."

Laurence smiled. "Two inches thick, actually. Did you really shell the
Dartmouth Ferry?"

The Gunner laughed. "A youthful indiscretion that continues to haunt me!"
He shook his head in remembrance. "Mind, the story did come in handy last
month when two of my cadets pissed in the pickles."

"They sound a handful. Two hundred-odd boys," said Laurence.

"They can be," agreed The Gunner. "Fortunately, they know me, and I know
them." He looked directly at Laurence. "Which cannot be said for you."

"I'm afraid you'd find me a most boring fellow," replied Laurence
calmly. While he had a chequered past, not too many people knew about
it. And he was not at all sure that he wanted to increase that number.

"Laurence, if you and I are to work together, I need to know the measure of
you. Last night I signed your petition to become a Professed Knight. That
tells me that you are homosexual. You told me that you were a Royal
Marine. You've given hints about this and that, but you've said nothing
substantive. While I am sure that Michael and Major Meinertzhagen know
everything there is to know about you, I would like to know you better, and
not in the biblical sense. That's not the way I work."

Laurence took a sip of coffee then carefully placed his cup on the
table. "I am not privy to Mister Michael's grand plan. I do know that I am
to work with you, which is why I was made privy to your dossier. We are
alike in many ways.  Surprisingly so."

"Really?"

"Yes. You had your awakening in CORNWALLIS. Mine was in Vietnam."

"Vietnam?" The Gunner asked, surprised. He had heard rumours, but then
. . . There was obviously much more to Laurence that either the Michael or
the Major had let on.

Laurence nodded. "I was there at the same time that you were there,
although in a far different capacity. Contrary to popular belief there was
still an American presence in country, although very hush-hush."

"And you were a part of that . . . presence?"

Laurence nodded and began, "You are no doubt familiar with the LRRPs teams?
Well . . ."

******

The Phantom blew out a long, slow breath of air and stared, wide-eyed, at
the man before him, a man he no longer knew. This man looked like Chef, his
voice sounded like Chef's, but he was not Chef. This was no Falstaffian
buffoon concerned only with enjoying life and taking the mickey out of poor
unsuspecting, innocent Sea Cadets. The man seated before The Phantom was
warm, yet a trifle distant, articulate, and very intense. In every way he
was not Chef, but of course he was Chef who had, quietly, and with a
clarity that The Phantom never suspected, talked about the Order, a story
of triumph and tragedy, of resurgence and rebirth, not of heroes, but of
men.

When he was finished Chef sat back and looked fondly at the confused young
man sitting before him. "Stevie loves you, Phantom. When he was talking to
you last night he was about to offer you a great gift."

"I didn't know," whispered The Phantom. "He never said anything, really. He
hinted a bit, but that's all."

Chef nodded knowingly. "He couldn't, you see. As a Knight he could propose
you, but it was not up to him to talk to you about the Order. Another man,
namely me, would do that."

"He said that," replied The Phantom. He suddenly looked at Chef. "Chef does
that mean that you're . . ."

Chef laughed heartily veiled allusion. "If I am it will come as a hell of a
shock to my ex-wife. Not to mention Madam Ada and more than a couple of
professional ladies in Halifax." The old Chef was still there, but subdued.

"But, Chef, if you're not . . ."

Chef leaned forward and looked at The Phantom. "One does not have to be
homosexual to be member of the Order. While the Order was originally
founded by and for gay men, as time went by heterosexuals, men of courage,
men of kindness, men who were and are willing to sacrifice their lives and
fortunes, but never their honour, defending the belief that all men are
created equal, not just the ones who are heterosexual, came to be
included. There are not many, sadly."

"And the Order helps all gays in trouble?"

Chef shook his head emphatically. "Not pedophiles, nor men who get
themselves into trouble by their own stupidity, Oscar Wilde comes to
mind. I am sure you have heard of him, although stuck in this abysmal
backwater I tend to doubt it."

The Phantom immediately sprang to the defence of the Comox school
system. "Have too! He was an English playwright."  The Phantom had studied
Wilde in English Lit, and the town library system had his books, well, all
but "The Picture of Dorian Grey" and, for some reason, the "Ballad of
Reading Gaol."

"He was also a most indiscreet man who brought all his troubles on to
himself," advised Chef gravely. "Mr. Wilde insisted on defending his
so-called honour when there was no need to. Then he got up in the dock and
made a complete fool of himself. No, the Order would not help him. It will
help a gay man who through no fault of his own is being discriminated
against."

"That's what I want to do." The Phantom squared his shoulders and looked
sternly at Chef. "Evil exists when good men do nothing!"

"A noble, and sadly, true sentiment, Phantom," agreed Chef. He cocked his
head and returned The Phantom's stare. "And while I applaud your
intentions, I must warn you, dear boy that noble causes quite often come
with a heavy price."

"There have been too many dead, too many years of bigotry and hatred!" The
Phantom's smooth, handsome features reddened. "Something must be done,
Chef."

 "Even if it means being ostracized by your family, and your friends?"
asked Chef kindly. "Even if it means the loss of your fortune? Think well,
Phantom. At the moment the Order exists in the shadows. Sooner or later it
will stand alone in the sun, and there will be a host of people more than
willing to bring it down."

The Phantom nodded with purpose and finality. "I will do whatever it
takes. I am a gay man! I accept that fact, and it is a fact, Chef. I have a
God-given right to be me! To be whatever I want to be, whether it is a
doctor, a lawyer, or a Naval officer. I will fight any man - or boy - who
tries to take that right away from me!"

Chef thought a moment. "By fair means or foul? I say that because there
might come a time when you will be asked to trod a darker path."

"By fair means or foul," repeated The Phantom grimly. "The enemy knows no
rules. I can, and will, if I have to, play the game their way. I am not
afraid, Chef. I am not a coward."

The intensity of The Phantom's answer startled Chef.  He held up his
hand. "I never suggested that you were, Phantom. I merely suggest that you
might be called upon to make a sacrifice that will be hurtful, and, in many
ways harmful to you and your reputation."

"Chef, I don't lie. I don't cheat. I don't steal. I believe in my friends,
and they believe in me. If I have to fight for them, I will. If I have to
die for them, then so be it. With or without the Order, that's the way it's
going to be!"

******

Ryan was very bored. Relaxed, but bored. He was actually a little sleepy
for Doc, after his initial examination had given Ryan a very mild sedative
to help calm him down. Rob had stayed for a little while but had to leave
to attend Divisions. When Rob left Ryan had taken a shower, which felt
wonderful. Matron, seeing his embarrassment, had given him two clean
hospital gowns so at least his butt wasn't sticking to the Naugahyde
upholstery of the chair he was sitting in.  Ryan listened to the usual
shouts, bellows, crashes and bangs associated with Divisions, had a pee,
looked out the window to see what was going on, then had another pee. Both
times he had carefully followed Doc's instructions to gently retract his
foreskin and carefully wash his glans with the antiseptic soap provided by
Matron.

No one had shown up for Sick Call, which immediately followed Divisions,
which meant that nobody but Rob knew why he was sitting here in the waiting
room.

After Divisions there was a lull of almost an hour. Ryan had nodded off and
was awakened by the crash of the guns being fired for the Ceremony of the
Flags. He listened to the bands playing, and, being an old hand (he'd been
a more or less willing participant in the Ceremony for three years) knew at
once that the guns were half a beat off from the music, which meant that
there would be hell to pay.

Todd, the Battery Commander, was an exacting and precise gunner. The
Saluting Battery was supposed to fire 21 rounds at precise intervals while
the Band played The Maple Leaf Forever and the Colour bearers slow marched
around the parade square. The last round was fired at exactly the same time
as the last note of music was played. Most people would have been satisfied
with an error of half a beat. Todd would not and the gunners would be
practising again this afternoon.

There was another lull and Ryan felt his eyes growing heavy. He was about
to settle down to another nap when the door crashed open and Father,
trailed by Number One and Tyler, charged into the room. The Commanding
Officer, full of bonhomie and bluster greeted Ryan in a loud, cheerful
voice. "Well, young Ryan, I understand that my Storekeeping Cavalier is to
become a Roundhead!" Father bellowed.

Ryan almost died on the spot. So much for keeping his little operation
between the Medical Staff and himself!

Father and Number One sailed on into Doc's office leaving Tyler to stay
with Ryan. Tyler, seeing the stricken look on Ryan's face sat down beside
him and gave his shoulder a small punch. "Are you okay?" he asked
sympathetically.

Ryan smiled shyly. He liked Tyler, who had always been kind to him.  "A
little worried," he admitted.  He nodded toward the closed door to Doc's
office. "Are they talking about me?" he asked, blushing slightly.

Tyler nodded.  "The Old Man has to sign off the paperwork.  Once he does,
Doc can do the surgery."

Ryan was a little puzzled.  He'd thought that the whole matter was between
him and Doc. "What paperwork?"

"Before you came here your parents signed a medical waiver that basically
makes you a ward of the Commanding Officer, sort of your guardian,"
explained Tyler. "That's so that in case you have an accident, or something
bad happens, the Commanding officer can see that you get immediate
treatment and nobody has to run around like mad things trying to find your
parents."

"Good luck on that one, mate," thought Ryan. Under normal circumstances his
mother would be out taking his brothers and sisters to day care or school,
and then she would go to work. His father, well, from noon on he spent his
time propping up the bar in the Sergeants' Mess, where he'd stay until he
fell off his bar stool (a not uncommon occurrence) or ran out of money.

"Don't worry, Ryan. Doc knows what he's doing." Tyler smiled and gave the
younger boy a most uncharacteristic hug. "It will all be over soon."

The door to Doc's office opened and the Commanding Officer entered the
waiting room. He sat down beside Ryan and gently patted the boy's
knee. "Ryan, the Doctor has recommended that you undergo medical
circumcision due to what he has diagnosed as recurring balanitis. As your
Commanding Officer I want to be sure that you understand fully just what is
going to happen to you."

"I understand. He's going to cut off my foreskin," replied Ryan slowly.

Father nodded. "He's explained that there are other alternatives?"

Ryan thought a moment. Doc had explained that his condition could be
controlled by medication and, as Doc put it, stringent and meticulous
hygiene. In addition to having to take a pill three times a day, every time
he went pee Ryan would have to wash himself with a special soap, which was
basically what his doctor back home had him doing. Ryan looked evenly at
Father. "Sir, have you ever been to a hockey game? A real hockey game, in
an arena?" Ryan asked.

Father was not a hockey fan and freely admitted that he had never attended
a hockey game. He admitted to being partial to football and had stood in
the stands on many a Saturday afternoon watching a match. He shook his
head. "I prefer a good soccer match," he replied.

"Have you ever had to pee . . . sorry, have you ever had to go to the
bathroom during the match?" asked Ryan.

Father caught Ryan's drift and smiled, nodding his understanding. He had
visions of the poor little devil trying to faithfully follow doctor's
orders in a crowded pissoir under the baleful eyes of a hundred excited
football fans.

"I'll lose the skin, then," said Ryan as he returned the Commanding
Officer's smile.

******

Matron, dressed in pale green surgical scrubs led Ryan into the examining
room, which had been prepared for surgery. The examining table had been
draped with a sterile sheet and a small metal table, on which lay the
instruments Doc would use for the procedure, stood at hand. After helping
Ryan remove his gowns Matron directed him to get on the table, which he
did. He also covered his genitals, hiding them from her view.

Matron smiled a secret smile. Ryan was not the first young man she'd
assisted in the operating theatre and they had all reacted the same
way. She handed the boy a small paper cup. Ryan looked doubtfully at the
pill in the cup. "What's this?" he asked.

"Diazepam, 5 milligrams. It's to help you relax."

Ryan took the pill and lay back. With great reluctance he removed his hands
when Matron told him to. He felt a cold moistness and raised his
head. Matron was applying some sort of liquid to his groin. "What's that,"
demanded Ryan, his voice panicky.

"My, aren't you the inquisitive one," returned Matron. "If you must know
it's a eutectic cream. It's an anaesthetic so that when Doctor injects the
local you won't feel the needle."

"Oh."

Matron calmly finished salving Ryan's groin and then drew a clean sheet
over his naked body. "Now we wait for a while and then Doctor will be
in. You're not too frightened are you?" she asked.

"No," lied Ryan.

Matron patted his cheek and assured him the Doctor knew exactly what he was
doing and that everything would be all right. She left the room and Ryan
was alone for about a half hour when Doc came in. In his hand he held a
large syringe, and before Ryan could say a word Doc said with a slight
chuckle, "Matron tells me that you are an inquisitive little chap and that
you want to know everything."

Ryan nodded silently.

"Well," said Doc as he pulled down the sheet covering Ryan's body, "what I
have here are 200 megs of Marcaine and Xylocaine. It is a local
anaesthetic, which I am going to use as a dorsal penile block. What that
means is I'm going to freeze your tackle so that you don't feel anything
when I do the surgery." He gently stuck the needle into Ryan's groin. Ryan
winced but did not cry out. Doc clucked and muttered as he deftly
anaesthetized Ryan's crotch. When he was finished he went off to change.

Matron returned and began the final preparations for Ryan's surgery. She
bathed Ryan's penis with Betadyne, explaining that it was an antiseptic
solution, and then placed a surgical drape over him. Except for his penis,
he was covered from neck to ankles. Doc returned, dressed in surgical
scrubs. "Well, Ryan, it's that time," he said gently. "It's not too late to
change your mind."

Ryan swallowed and shook his head. "I want to do it, please."

Doc nodded and reached down. He squeezed the head of Ryan's covered
penis. "Feel that?" he asked.

Ryan felt pressure, but no pain. "Nope, nothing."

Doc squeezed harder and still Ryan felt nothing.

"Right. We shall begin." Doc picked up a surgical pen and made a ring
around Ryan's penis, marking where he would make his excision. Then he
picked up his scalpel.

Matron saw the look of fear that came into Ryan's eyes and slipped her
hands into his. "It's all right, Ryan, you're in good hands," she said
soothingly, thinking of all the hands of frightened boys she had held while
the doctors worked on them. For a few brief moments she was back in the
hastily established field hospital in St. Stephen's College, Hong
Kong. December 1941, and there were Japanese soldiers in the hills behind
the school buildings. Later, after the horror had passed, she remembered
the internment camp where she was imprisoned and, later still, the MASH
unit in Korea.

Ryan saw a side of Matron that no man or boy, except for those young
soldiers and sailors she called 'her boys', ever saw. He smiled at the
portly woman. Suddenly he was no longer frightened and no longer heard Doc
droning away about external preputial incisions and retracted foreskins.

******

The Phantom, still slightly stunned at what Chef had told him, put the
finishing touches on the officers' table. He'd had to set the tables alone,
as all the stewards were still on the parade square. From the sounds
drifting in through the open doors of the dining hall it was obvious that
their performance this morning had been less than perfect. >From all the
yelling it was evident that Todd would accept nothing less than perfection.

Chef had reverted to his old self and was bellowing in the galley. One of
the four new Makee-Learns had done something.  Chef pretended that he
couldn't tell one from the other. They were all from the same town
(Thorold, on the Welland Canal), were all 13-years and some months old, and
all had brown hair. If he needed one of them Chef would bellow all four
names, which were Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, although Luke's real name
was David, but since "The Rifleman" was a frequent rerun on television back
home and since David's last name was Cain . . . Chef maintained that he
felt as if he were reciting The Litany of the Saints whenever he wanted a
Makee-Learn.

The Phantom smiled at Chef's bellowing and was about to take a short break
when a tall, slim figure entered the dining hall. He looked up and saw Greg
advancing toward him, an envelope in his hand.

Greg looked terrible. He had bags under his eyes and his skin was a pasty
grey. His T-shirt and shorts looked like he'd slept in them. With shaking
hand he held out the envelope.

The Phantom took the envelope and then leaned forward. He sniffed,
detecting a slight odour of alcohol, vodka, unless he missed his
guess. "You've been drinking," he said flatly. "You look like shit and when
was the last time you had a shower?" He stuffed the envelope in his pant's
pocket.

Greg shuddered and burst into tears. He buried his face in his hands and
shook his body from side to side. "Please, Phantom, please . . ." He sobbed
and lowered his hands, revealing the tears as they coursed their way down
his haggard cheeks. "I can't go to jail. I can't!"

The Phantom grabbed Greg's arm and quickly led him into the lounge where he
grabbed the weeping boy by the shoulders and shook him fiercely. "Stop it!"
he ordered. "You are not going to jail! Nobody is going to jail!"

"But . . ." Greg wailed piteously.

The Phantom resisted the urge to slap the quaking Writer. "Listen to me!
You will not go to jail."

"But Phantom, there's another letter!" Greg slumped on the sofa. "There's
another letter!"

"All right, there's another letter. What's in it?"

Greg looked at The Phantom, his face full of confusion. "I . . . don't
. . .know," He began slowly. "I didn't open it."

"Then what are you worried about? You don't even know if you're mentioned!"
With a look of disgust The Phantom drew the envelope out of his pocket,
ripped it open, and quickly scanned the crabbed writing. What he read made
him turn almost as white as Greg. Little Big Man had written his father
that Matt was having an affair with The Gunner! He'd seen them all but
making love! He'd seen them in the Mess Hall. A grown man had put his hand
on Matt's bum! He'd rubbed Matt's bum and Matt, why he had loved it!

Stunned at the accusation The Phantom sat down abruptly in the chair
opposite the sofa. He tried to think.  When? Then he remembered. It had
been on Wednesday, at lunchtime. The Gunner had come in late, with Number
One, and Matty had groused about it. The Gunner had given Matt a playful
pat on the bum, but that was all it was, damn it! He read on and was
surprised to learn that The Gunner even had a pet name for Matt:
"Boychick". The Phantom snorted so loudly that Greg, wallowing in
self-pity, jerked his head up. "What?"

The Phantom shook his head. "Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing you should
concern yourself with."

The Phantom finished reading the letter and laid his head against the back
of the chair. The letter was a damning collection of innuendoes,
suppositions and lies. A repetition of the other letters, really. As for
writing that Boychick was a pet name of endearment for a lover, hell and
sheeit, The Gunner called everybody boychick sooner or later!

For five or more long minutes The Phantom ignored the sniffling
Greg. Echoes of words and phrases, flashing images of Jeff and Robbie, came
and went. He heard again Chef's words and wondered if he was one of Chef's
men of courage and kindness, one of those men willing to sacrifice
everything, their lives, their fortunes, all save honour.

He thought of the Twins, his wonderful friends and lovers. He thought of
Todd, denied his greatest wish. He thought of Cory, strong, wilful, and
full of concern for his brother. He asked himself how high a price the
Twins were willing to pay to avoid embarrassing their parents. He thought
of Harry who would willingly endure anything rather than betray his love
for Stefan. He looked at Greg, once the sharpest, brightest Writer AURORA
had ever known, now a broken husk of a boy so afraid that he drowned his
fears in alcohol.

A chill passed through The Phantom's body and he was afraid, knowing in his
deepest heart of hearts that he had to trod a darker path. He knew what he
had to do and prayed that he had the strength and fortitude to do it.

******

The Phantom stood up slowly and walked to where Greg was sitting. He pulled
the still weeping boy to his feet and looked at him. Greg, puzzled, did not
struggle as The Phantom bent forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Greg, I
want you to stop crying," The Phantom said quietly. "Will you do that for
me?"

Greg nodded dumbly, sniffed loudly, and forced his tears to subside. "I'm
sorry, it's just that . . .Phantom, I can't eat, I can't sleep . . ."

"Ssh, Greg, it's all right." The Phantom gave Greg a warm hug. "I want you
to listen to me, Greg, and I want you to do something for me."

"Okay, yeah."

The Phantom took Greg's hand and led him into the locker room where he
stopped before his locker, opened it and took out his razor and a can of
aerosol shaving cream. The Phantom handed the razor and shaving cream to
Greg. "I want you shave, Greg, and then shower. I want you to take a long,
hot shower."

Greg nodded.  "But, Phantom, what will I wear? I don't have any clean
clothes." He leaned forward and whispered.  "Phantom, I don't even have any
clean underwear!"

"Not to worry," replied The Phantom soothingly. He pulled a clean T-shirt,
a pair of shorts, and his last clean pair of boxers from the locker. He
handed the clothing to Greg. "I know you prefer briefs but I'm a boxers
man, so these will have to do.  Now, please, go do as I ask."

While Greg showered The Phantom went into the galley and motioned for Ray
to come alongside. "What's up?" asked Ray.

"Ray, I want you to make an omelette. Eggs, bacon, peppers, whatever you
have. When it's cooked bring it into the lounge."

A little puzzled, Ray nodded his agreement. "I can warm up some of the hash
browns from breakfast as well. You want coffee, too?"

Seeing the look on Ray's face The Phantom decided to tell him the
truth. "Greg's in a bad way. He's been drinking and he needs food. Please,
Ray, cook up something for him." He paused and squeezed Ray's
shoulder. "And please, the less Chef knows, the better."

Ray knew that Phantom would not ask if it was not important, so he readily
agreed and hurried off to cook the food.

The Phantom then motioned for Joey. "I want you to find Harry, and tell him
that I need him."

"Okay, but where is he? You know what he's like," began Joey. "He flits
around like a blue-assed fly."

"Don't swear, Joey," replied The Phantom out of habit. "Try the School of
Wind. And tell him, please, I need to see him."

******

Harry, a worried look on his face, rushed into the lounge and saw The
Phantom staring out the window. "Phantom, are you all right?" Harry placed
his broad hand on The Phantom's shoulder. "Joey was so vague I didn't know
what to think."  The Phantom turned and smiled a small smile. "I'm all
right, Harry, truly." He pointed to the letter lying on the deck where he'd
dropped it. "There's been another letter."

Wordlessly Harry followed The Phantom's finger. He slowly walked to where
the letter lay, stared at it, then picked it up. He sank into the chair,
read the letter through, then stared at The Phantom, a looked of despair on
his face.  "Harry, are you my brother?" asked The Phantom quietly.

Harry was insulted at the question and voiced his outrage. "Of course
you're my brother! Fuck, man, you're more than my brother. I love you. How
could you ask me that?"

The Phantom ignored Harry's outburst. "Harry, as my brother I am going to
tell you something. You must promise not to become angry with me."

Harry sensed that The Phantom was deadly serious. "Okay."

"I have decided that the time has come to settle with Little Big Man. I
will do it in my own way, and you must never question my method. What I
have to do could end up in disaster. What I am going to do to Little Big
Man will make him leave everybody alone."

"Are you going to hurt him?" asked Harry, surprised at the depth of emotion
in The Phantom's voice.

The Phantom thought about that for a moment. "In a way, but not
physically. I will not stoop to physical abuse. All I will tell you is that
when I am finished he will never bother you, or Stefan, again."

Harry looked at The Phantom and saw a coldness in his friend's eyes that
sent a chill through him. "Phantom, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to look after Greg," said The Phantom as he took the letter
from Harry's hand. "He needs you. He's very vulnerable right now and he
needs a friend." He nodded toward the shower room. "He's in the
shower. When he's finished Ray will bring him some food. Make him eat
it. I've given him some clean clothes but he really should have his own. If
you gather up his kit I'll see that it gets washed?"

Harry was flabbergasted. Here Phantom was, announcing that he was going to
settle with Little Big Man, and he's going on about Greg's dirty dhobi. "No
need. Everybody's heavy-duty stuff is going to Base laundry today. The
small stuff, T-shirts and undies we'll do in town. The Old Man has given us
a half-holiday this afternoon. We're all going ashore."

"Good. Take Greg ashore.  Look after him and later, make sure he goes to
bed and gets some sleep."

"Sure, okay, but, Jeez, Phantom, is that all?  I can . . ." The Phantom
walked to Harry, bent down and kissed him full on the lips. Harry struggled
half-heartedly, then moaned softly. "Pha . . . Phantom . . . I . . ." he
stammered when The Phantom pulled away.

"I love you, my brother," smiled The Phantom. "You are my most wonderful
brother. Please, look after our brother Greg." And Harry? Speak well of
me."

Stunned at the intensity of The Phantom's kiss, Harry watched dumbfounded
as The Phantom left the room.

******

Lunch was a loud, boisterous affair. For the cadets a promised afternoon of
freedom, albeit supervised, beckoned. Life, at last, was good. Their
laundry had been sent off to Base, a new supply of bed linen had arrived
and, with luck, the swimming pool in town would not be crowded.

It had really been a Red Letter day! First morning callisthenics had been
cancelled. Then Captain's Rounds had been postponed until next
Tuesday. What more, really, could a guy ask for? Clean clothes, clean beds,
good food and an afternoon exploring the souks of Comox.

Chef, who had reverted to type, was bellowing and chivvying his
Makee-Learns and teasing the other cadets. He announced that it was much
too nice to be stuck indoors so supper would be barbecue, with the officers
cooking (which was news to them).  There would be steak, all the boys could
eat, and chicken (those damned chickens) and, for those would wanted it,
grilled halibut (it was Friday, after all, and the Pope, senile old fool
that he was, wasn't infallible so far as Chef was concerned). There would
be salads and baked potatoes, with sour cream and bacon and chives. The
duff tables would groan under the weight of sweets and cakes and pies.

The Phantom, wondering what Chef was really up to, raised his eyes to
Heaven and kept his own counsel. He had much more important things to think
about than Chef's silliness.

In his own devious way, Chef had a plan. He knew, of course, about
Phantom's laundry run into town. He also knew that in order to use the
Admiral's Dining Room a provenance had to be established that firmly
proclaimed the silver, china and glass to be from the Lascelles family, and
he had decided that what better way to establish that provenance than to
have a dozen or so independent witnesses haul the boxes and crates now
resting in Phantom's basement back to AURORA?

Chef returned to the Mess Hall and studied his territory. He watched the
cadets as they laughed, ate, played grabass, ate, chucked shit at each
other, ate, and generally enjoyed themselves. He watched The Phantom
mooching around, silently serving the officers their lunch, and put the
boy's reticence down to their conversation earlier in the day. Phantom had
a lot to absorb and a lot to think about.

Chef's mind was whirling, as he thought of what needed to be done. He would
need transport, of course, and a driver. There was a perfectly good
half-ton sitting outside of the Headquarters Building. Sandro had a
Military 404 Driver's Licence, but Chef wanted him to go with the other
boys and enjoy himself. Sandro also needed transportation from The
Phantom's house to Father's, and Father would not appreciate him pulling up
to his house in a bloody truck. Better for Chef to drive him in his own old
Chevy.

Chef scanned the Mess Hall and spotted Nicholas who was, as usual, sitting
with Andre. His eyes brightened. Nicholas, who also had a 404, suitably
bribed, could drive the half-ton. Cackling, Chef rubbed his hands
together. Transport problem solved.

Next a Work Party, and what better place to find willing, strong, boys than
right here? And what better willing, strong boys than the stewards? The
Phantom had solved their laundry problems, free, gratis and for nothing. It
was time that the boys learned that no good deed ever goes unpunished. He
turned and pushed open the swinging door leading to the galley, thinking,
as he bellowed The Litany of the Saints, that Phantom had a pool in his
back yard, had he not?"

******

Grim faced and tight-lipped, The Phantom sat in the shadows of his house,
watching as the other boys swam and dove in the pool, lounged and generally
relaxed. In front of him lay the Twins, with Randy and Joey close by. Matt
as usual was never far away from Todd and Cory. At the moment he was in the
pool, yelling and gesturing for Todd and Cory to join him.

The Work Party had made short work of loading the Admiral's Dining Room
into the half-ton and The Gunner's Rover with china and crystal. In the
trunk of Chef's battered old car the more valuable silver pieces had been
crammed. The whole evolution had taken less than an hour to complete.

The stewards had been joined by Nicholas, who was needed to drive the
half-ton, and where went Nicholas, so went Andre.  At first Nicholas had
been reluctant, but Chef had promised the use of a washing machine and
dryer (neglecting to tell The Phantom until they arrived at the house), a
swimming pool that was not crammed with a hundred other people, and
permission to go round the buoy twice at supper.

Sandro, while protesting, had been included in the work party. As Chef
pointed out, Sandro was excused duty on the weekends anyway, and Chef
wanted him to have a break. There were more than enough hands in the
galley. Ray could look after things, and he had four Makee-Learns to help
him. He also had Kevin. Joey and Randy had been included because they
whined loudly and made heart-warming appeals to their Honourary Big
Brother. If only to shut them up Chef had granted their appeal. Now, as the
boys cavorted in the pool, Chef was happily rummaging in the basement,
selecting the wines he would serve on Monday at Tyler's dinner.

A shadow crossed The Phantom's line of sight. He looked up and saw Sandro
walking toward the deep end of the pool, and realized that Sandro was an
extremely well built and handsome young man. The Phantom looked
around. They all were, these active, virile, more than attractive
boys. Aside from the Brats they were all of an age, really, sixteen and
seventeen years old, with strong, firm bodies, slim, with flashing eyes and
killer smiles, beautiful as only boys who have just entered the full flush
of masculinity are beautiful, full of life and glowing with that special
aura of maleness unique to teenaged boys.

What proud young peacocks they all were, uninhibited, unconsciously
determined to show off to their fellow males. Sandro was wearing a pair of
swimming trunks he'd brought from Russia, a blue and white striped suit so
brief and thin that every nook, cranny and fold of his genitals was
revealed.

Killian strolled by, tall, blond, clean cut, every one of his short-cut
hairs in place, his slim body accentuated by a pair of black Speedos that
outlined clearly his perfectly proportioned, circumcised penis nestling
above his large, oval testicles. Fine, blond hairs peeked out of the dark
fabric of his suit, adding to his allure.

The Phantom heard a shout and raised his head to look at Nick and Chad,
both blondes. Nick had a smooth, finely muscled chest devoid of hair, Chad
was heavier, with a fine dark forest outlining his pectorals and darker
treasure trail that disappeared under the elastic band of the briefs he
wore under his shorts. Nick was similarly clad and as they dove and jumped,
their legs spread wide, brief flashes of white cotton hinted at the hidden
treasures beneath.

Sitting at the edge of the pool Nicholas and Andre dabbled their feet in
the cool, clear blue water.  In a way, they were chalk and cheese,
Nicholas, tall, his muscles all but formed, his clear eyes bright and
clear, full of love for the shorter, boyish figure beside him. Andre, no
longer a boy, not yet a man, happily content to be sitting with his adored
Nicholas.

There was another shout and hoots of laughter. Aaron, short, attractive,
with dark brown, almost black hair, was howling and raging at Billy, a
tall, frankly skinny boy, as ass-less as Two Strokes, who was frantically
trying to move out of the way of his thrashing friend. Aaron had forgotten
his bathing suit and had been swimming in his tartan boxers, or at least he
had been until Billy pulled down his underpants. Aaron, threatening mayhem
on Billy, struggled to pull his shorts up, not at all caring that his
smooth genitals were blatantly exposed for everyone to see. They were all
guys, after all, and they'd all seen his dick before, so what was the
problem?

In front of The Phantom, Todd and Cory, his wonderful, adorable Twins,
teased and chivvied the Brats. The older boys had commandeered two air
mattresses and were sprawled comfortably in the sun. Randy and Joey had to
make do with their beach towels spread out on the hard, concrete
pool-surround.

The Phantom sighed heavily, wondering if on Monday these same wonderful,
handsome stewards of his would still be his stewards, if his friends would
still be his friends, if his little brothers would still look at him with
love. Or would they all, if the fates were unkind, look at him and turn
away?

******

The boys lazed away the better part of the afternoon, laughing and talking,
chowing down on pizza, which they had coerced Chef into sending out
for. They talked of many things, including Ryan's little operation. Rob had
told David, of course, and David, when someone had mentioned not seeing
either Rob or Ryan all morning, had told the others. There was a general
round of sympathetic wincing, after which there was a general round of
commiseration for those who hadn't been circumcised a few days after they
had been born.  Sandro quickly rolled on his stomach and Andre look
quizzically at Nicholas who said he'd explain it all later.

Matt floundered out of the pool and flopped down beside Todd. His wet
bathing shorts clung to his body and clearly outlined his smart, crisp cock
and balls.

Joey gave Matt's crotch an approving glance. "See, I told you, Randy, just
about everybody is," he said with a giggle.  "Even Matt."

"What do you mean by that crack?" growled Matt.

"They don't mean anything," said Cory hurriedly. He glared at Joey, who
glared back. "I would think that you two would have better things to do
than to go around checking out baskets and bulges," said Cory, a mild note
of warning in his voice.

"We don't," returned Randy honestly. "Besides, Matt has a nice basket."

The Phantom snapped out of his reverie. "Randy!"

"Well he does," insisted Randy. Then he sniffed. "Even if it is kind of
small."

The boys ignored Matt, who was snarling quietly at their insult. "Sandro
has a nice basket, too," said Joey, gazing at Sandro, who was pretending
that neither Brat existed. "Nice bum, too."

"That's enough," snapped The Phantom, so loudly that the Twin's heads
snapped around and Matt gave him a funny look. All three boys knew that
something was biting The Phantom's ass. He'd been moody all day, not at all
like The Phantom they knew.

"They are only funning," said Cory carefully. The Phantom seemed to be
pissed off about something and he did not want to make matters worse.

The Phantom saw the hurt look on Joey and Randy's faces and immediately
apologized. "I sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you two, but you have to behave
in public."

Joey was about to reply that The Phantom's back yard was hardly a public
place when Todd silenced him with a glance.

Todd looked at The Phantom. "You seem, well, angry about something," he
said quietly. "Is it something the boys have done?  Or Cory? Something I've
done?"

The Phantom stood up abruptly. "It's nothing you've done, Todd, or the
boys," he said softly.  He almost added that it was something he was going
to do but stopped himself. Matt and the Brats were innocents and would, if
he had anything to say about it, remain so. He gestured toward the
house. "Can you come up to my room?  I need to tell you something."

"Sure." Todd gave Cory a quizzical glance and stood up. Cory, as much in
the dark as his brother, did likewise.

Randy and Joey started to rise but The Phantom stopped them. "Please, stay
here with Matt," he said as kindly as he could. "I need to talk to Todd and
Cory alone."

Joey and Randy suspected that something important was going on but silently
agreed to follow The Phantom's direction. They adored him more than he
realized and they would do what he asked. Matt, while wondering what was
going on, readily agreed to look out for the two younger boys. "If you need
anything, Phantom, you only have to ask," he offered.

The Phantom smiled his thanks. "Promise me, Matty, that you will never
change," he said softly. Then he jerked his head toward the house,
motioning for the Twins to follow him.

There was something in The Phantom's voice that frightened Randy and
Joey. Randy slipped his hand in Joey's. "What's wrong with Phantom?" asked
Randy, trying hard not to show his fear.

"It's like he's saying goodbye to us," said Joey. "He's not going away, is
he Matt?"

Matt, his eyes filled with concern, stared into the darkened house. "I
don't know, Joey, I just don't know."

******

Upstairs The Phantom led the Twins into his room and motioned for them to
sit on his bed. He then opened his bureau drawer and brought out a piece of
clothing he thought that he had stored away for good and all. He turned and
looked at Todd and Cory. "Little Big Man has written another letter. You
two, and the others, are not mentioned. The Gunner and Matt are." He held
out the dark woollen ski mask, and took a deep breath. "Tomorrow night,
when all the officers are ashore, I am going to settle with Paul Greene
once and for all," he said with quiet firmness.

Then he waited for the explosions of biblical wrath that he knew would
come.